A Walk Among The Speakeasies
by P.W.Gates
Summary: AU: Boston, 1934. It ends where it started, all in heady cloud of cigarette smoke, bullets, sex, class and rivalry.
1. Introductions

_After seeing a very appealing picture of Matthew and Mary from 3x01 while walking on Tumblr, suggesting that Matthew looked like a gangster...I decided to take it upon myself to write something. So prepare for Boardwalk Empire/Gangster Squad/Downton Abbey...its about to get exciting!_

_All lines taken from Boardwalk Empire/Gangster Squad/Downton Abbey; Boardwalk Empire belongs to Terence Winter, Gangster Squad belongs to Will Beall and Downton Abbey belongs to Julian Fellowes._

_Thankyou to my darling beta **Rachel Smith Cobleigh **for the hints, tips, revamp and polish, grateful as ever._

_Its taken me months to put this up...but just in time for Christmas._

_Merry Christmas to you all and Enjoy! P. x_

* * *

_Every man carries a badge, some symbol of allegiances, and his were the scars of a boxer who had never started a fight but had always finished it. A Jew who'd gained the respect of wops through his fists and his words. A man who'd looked like an easy target, but who'd turned the tables on them more than once. He had their grudging respect. He just had a grudge. He wanted out of this town, but he wasn't leaving until he'd settled the score._ His name is Matthew Crawley.

* * *

**Stone's Bar, Boston, ****Massachusetts.**** Mid September 1934.**

The soft flickers of the candle flame; the bright, comforting light of the glass chandelier that hung in the middle of the room; the waft of tobacco smoke; the happy chatter and laughter of people; the stumbling and slurring of the drunk; the sharp thrum of jazz.

Before the barman could tell his boss he was off for the night, a man swung onto a seat at the bar, putting down a five-dollar note and ensuring that the barman stayed for another two minutes.

The barman sighed. "What do you want?"

Sharp blue eyes glared at him from underneath the brim of a black trilby. "Whiskey."

The black trilby landed on the bar as the barman filled a tumbler with rocks and moonshine. Raising the glass to the barman with a mocking twist of his lips, the man threw back a swallow.

Another familiar figure appeared beside him, tapping him on the shoulder, and the man turned to look at the newcomer. Oh jeez, not these two. The barman started to surreptitiously move some of his glassware to a lower shelf. He had no desire to go to the trouble of replacing it all again.

"Tom."

"Matthew." Tom jerked his hand at the barman, who sighed again and started to fill another tumbler with whiskey. Why did they have to show up tonight, with Blake and company on the other side of the room?

"Took your time," Matthew said with a lazy drawl.

"Yeah. Well. When you're an Irishman..." Tom picked up the glass that the barman pushed towards him, giving the barman a nod of thanks. The barman hoped that he'd get paid for his trouble this time.

"As a former attorney, I have a rights list. I could charge you."

Tom raised his eyebrow and smirked. "What with?" He lifted the glass to his lips.

Matthew smirked. "Being a fugitive."

Tom coughed on his drink, pulling at his collar. He glanced away from Matthew, towards the mobster court that was sitting, shrouded in smoke and shadows, thirty feet behind them. At least Blake and Judge Crawley hadn't seemed to notice them yet, but the barman saw Blake's bodyguards, Green and Kent, eyeing the newcomers with displeasure. Charles Blake and Judge Robert Crawley were deep in conversation with Suffolk County Sheriff George Murray, probably cooking up some scheme that the barman would do well to know nothing about. He just wanted to get home; Lou was probably waiting up for him and he smiled at the thought of seeing her soon.

Raising an eyebrow, Matthew glanced over at Blake's table, took another swallow of whiskey, and then turned back to Tom.

"Tell me. Who's the raven head in the white?" Matthew asked, placing his glass down on the bar. The barman followed his gaze and saw the stunning doll who'd come in with Blake now eyeing Matthew with interest. The barman rolled his eyes. Oh God, not _that_. That was certain to provoke Blake's anger. What was the fool Matthew Crawley playing at? Did he want to get himself thrown out _again?_

Tom shot Matthew a look of caution. "That's Mary Crawley. Blake's _etiquette tutor_."

The barman listened to this with interest. Crawley, eh? How many Crawleys _were_ there in this town? Everyone knew that Matthew was no relation to the judge, but the barman would bet his hat that the doll was Judge Crawley's daughter. Linking his family with Blake's would go far to secure Judge Crawley's position in this town.

"Is that right?" Matthew smirked, pulling out a cigarette and tapping it.

"He's trying to get all sophisticated." Tom smirked too, lighting a cigarette.

"I haven't been sophisticated in weeks." Matthew took a long drag and then blew out a cloud of smoke. Mary Crawley's eyes focused on Matthew with undisguised interest.

The barman rolled his eyes and continued moving the glasses down to the lower shelf.

Tom whistled. "You are mad." He shook his head. "I'm telling you, Matt. If you go anywhere near her, Blake will skin you alive."

Matthew shrugged, still looking across the room at her. "She's beautiful. He's mad if he doesn't treat her right."

"How do you know he doesn't?" Tom asked, shooting him a worried glance. "She looks fine to me."

"Fine indeed." Matthew's voice curled appreciatively.

The barman watched as Mary Crawley whispered something to Blake, who nodded distractedly and gave her a brief smile, and then she rose gracefully to her feet. She was stunning, that couldn't be denied. She looked expensive, though. His Lou was a sweet little thing, undemanding, more his speed.

Mary stepped out from the table of mobsters and made a deliberate path towards the bar. She sauntered past Matthew, not looking at him, the silk of her thin gown rustling softly as she passed.

"I'll be back," Matthew announced to Tom in a low voice, standing up and giving him an unreassuring pat on the back.

"Be careful, Crawley," the Irishman hissed, watching his friend follow the doll towards the back hall.

The barman kept his head down and considered whether he ought to move some of the bottles of whiskey under the bar as well. He shrugged. Better safe than sorry, he thought, and turned to his task. It wasn't any business of his what Matthew Crawley got up to. No siree.

* * *

As Matthew followed Mary Crawley, his eyes travelled appreciatively over the slender lines and curves of her back. She seemed a touch thin to his eyes, her shoulder and backbones more visible than he liked, protruding from under her pale skin, and a spark of worry for her shot through him. He wondered idly how those backbones would disappear when she arched up off a bed and he wanted very much to see her do just that. Her long black hair cascaded down her back, swaying gently as she walked, and it tapered just above a dip of white silk that clung to the small of her back and outlined the shape of her perfect backside. His hands ached to cup it firmly, to press himself against her and to run his hands over her delicious body, but that would have to wait.

_Focus, Matthew._

The corridor was dimly lit, leading to the gents' and ladies', a storage closet, and the boss's office. As the boss was standing near the front door at the moment deep in conversation, on the opposite side of the dive, Matthew was unworried when Mary stepped into the office with only a brief glance over her shoulder, her eyes beckoning to him.

When he entered the office and saw her half-seated on the edge of the large mahogany desk, he smirked and softly pushed the door closed behind him. He turned back to face her and saw that she had placed a cigarette between her rouged lips.

He approached and settled against the desk beside her, silently offering her a light. She leaned closer to him, placing her cigarette near the flame, and took a few puffs, then slowly blew out a cloud of smoke through her nostrils. Her eyes were fixed on a point across the room, but her awareness was clearly directed at him. The edges of their hands brushed where they rested on the desk between them.

He felt for his pocket and dropped the lighter in it, unable to take his eyes away from her pale, haughty beauty and those stunning doe eyes that made him weak in the knees.

"Tell me, handsome," she spoke for the first time, her voice a pleasantly low tone. "What brings you here?"

Matthew drew on his own cigarette, considering his reply. For all that she was a heady mix of sex and class, he needed to play this carefully. Was she working for Blake, trying to trap or use him? Was she truly an innocent bystander, merely interested in a brief release of tension in this office before the boss came back? Or was there more to her than met the eye? How Matthew answered her now could make or break any number of things. He needed more information, and he needed to get it without showing his hand first.

He gave her a sly grin. "Interest."

"In what?" she asked, eyeing him and not yet smiling herself.

Matthew shook his head and blew out a thin stream of smoke. "Charles Blake."

Her eyes rolled. "Ah. Go on."

That seemed promising to him. He crossed 'innocent bystander' off the list.

"I'm Matthew."

"Yes," she said with a small smile, her gaze roving over him, taking his measure and making him warm. "I know who you are, Mr. Crawley."

He raised an eyebrow playfully. "Should I be flattered?"

"That depends," she replied, her lips quirking, and she placed her cigarette between them again. How he wanted to see those full lips wrap around something _else_—

_Focus, Matthew_. He swallowed and tilted his head in amusement. She really was quite the siren.

"You have me at a disadvantage," he said. "You know me, but I know nothing..." He let his eyes trail over her body suggestively. "...about you."

"True," she said, her doe eyes dancing but her mouth revealing nothing. Damn, this doll was good. He was going to have to tip his hand slightly. She knew the game he was playing. He could only pray that she was willing to continue playing it with him.

"I find myself fascinated by his interest in you," he said, watching her face for some reaction, but it remained frustratingly, intriguingly impassive.

"I see. And why does that fascinate you?"

Matthew laughed and whistled. "You could be in for a long night, sweetheart."

She blew out a cloud of smoke. "I'm sure."

Matthew wanted to play his words carefully but instead came out with exactly "How do you know Blake?"

The doll's lips twitched. "I'm his _etiquette tutor. _I thought you knew that." She shook her head and clicked her tongue. "Oh dear, Mr. Crawley, you are slow."

Matthew scoffed. "You mock me, _darling._"

She smirked. "Oh really?"

Matthew was determined to stay focused. "Seriously, how long have you known Blake?"

"A few good years. He's a kitten, really."

Matthew's mouth dropped open. "A _kitten?!_ Are you mad?"

He saw that she was taken aback by the remark. "What do you have against him?" she demanded, her brow furrowing.

Matthew glared at her with wide eyes, his jaw clenched; he was gritting his teeth, struggling not to curse at the beautiful woman who was sitting beside him .

"Matthew?"

"I'm not answering that," he bit out, looking away as he lifted his cigarette to his lips. "That's for him to tell you."

"Well he's not here and I'm asking _you._"

"Well—"

A knock on the door interrupted them.

"Who is it?" Matthew called out, annoyed. He wasn't concerned; he had connections to the boss here. When Tom stuck his head round the door with wide eyes, Matthew's annoyance quickly shifted to concern. From the expression on Tom's face, it was clear that he didn't want to interrupt them. "Tom?"

Mary looked between Tom and Matthew with a frown, looking to Matthew for some explanation.

Tom cleared his throat. "It's Anthony. He's dead."

* * *

_Quotes are from Gangster Squad._

_Reviews? Thoughts? Questions?_


	2. Introductions Pt2

_AU: Boston, 1934. It ends where it started, all in heady cloud of cigarette smoke, bullets, sex, class and rivalry;_

_Huge thanks to Apollo888 for taking the time to BETA. :)_

_Enjoy!_

* * *

**Charlie &amp; Charlie's Speakeasy, New York City, New York****. Mid September 1934**

Charlie Carson was not impressed.

When Thomas placed the late edition of the New York Times in front of him, he thought that someone (most likely Thomas himself) was playing a joke, but it wasn't until he received a phone call from Moseley an hour later that it was as real as the grey hair on his head.

_"Boss? It's Joe."_

_"What's going on, Joe?"_

_"So, you've seen the papers then?"_

_"I have." Charlie sighed and scratched his forehead. "It's not true, is it, Joe?"_

_"Well, that's just the thing, Boss."_

_Charlie groaned "It's true then, is it?"_

_A short pause on the other end of the line before Molesley dared to answer. "Yes, Boss."_

_He raised his eyes to the heavens, blowing the air out of his cheeks, thinking of the possibilities._

_Joe's voice brought him back. "Boss? You still there?"_

_A light bulb switched on in his head. "Any chance you could come back to New York in the next few hours?"_

_"It's a slim shot, Boss. But I can try."_

_"Thank you, Joe. And good luck."_

_"Thanks, Boss."_

"Anthony Gillingham, of all people. It had to be him." He grumbled, lighting a cigar and puffing on it before blowing out a cloud through his lips.

The office door swung open with such force that it slammed into the filing cabinets.

A flustered looking William stumbled into the room.

"Thomas, get the man a chair and a glass of water." Charlie ordered, standing from his desk to guide the lad to the chair that Thomas had placed behind them.

Charlie placed the glass of water in William's shaking hands. The poor lad couldn't even drink properly, the water splashing out and onto the floor. "William? Calm down."

The young lad nodded and handed the glass to Thomas.

"Now," Charlie sat on the edge of the desk behind him, "What happened, William?"

"Anthony," He stuttered, "Anthony and Blake. There was a fight…a fist…no, no, a gun fight. Oh God, Anthony mentioned something about getting revenge, and Blake just starting shooting at him." He started to hyperventilate. "Then Blake said something about Matthew. I, I'm not sure what about, but Matthew's name was definitely mentioned."

Charlie and Thomas shared a worried glance.

Thomas placed a hand on William's shoulder. "So what you are saying is that Anthony gave his life to protect Matthew?"

William placed his head in his hands. "I, I don't know. I don't know."

"And where were you when this was happening?" Charlie asked.

William's eyes flitted from Thomas to Charlie. "Behind a car. I, I couldn't find my gun."

"So you hid?" Thomas growled in his ear. "You coward!" he slapped him on the back of the head.

* * *

**Stone's Bar, Boston, ****Massachusetts.**

Matthew was pacing up and down the length of the office, running his hands through his hair, a small sheen of sweat had formed on his brow.

"Matthew?" Tom's harsh tone caused him to whip round with wild eyes. "You need to phone Charlie."

Mary frowned. _Charlie. _She'd heard that name before when hearing a conversation between her father and Blake.

Matthew sighed, sitting down next to Mary on the edge of the desk. "I suppose I should." He stood up, walking towards the door.

"And tell him what, exactly?" said Mary's voice behind him. "Something he probably already knows. Why bother?"

Matthew tensed again, his grip slackening on the door handle; he turned round, and walked slowly towards her. "He needs to know that I'm alive, Mary. And besides, why are you so concerned?"

Mary elegantly raised her shoulder. "I'm not. I just think you should stay away from something that doesn't concern you."

Matthew raised an eyebrow. "Anything that concerns Blake matters to me. Anything that concerns Charlie matters to me. I am _not _wading into this war blind, unlike some people. This isn't a war between Blake and Charlie; not anymore. It's much bigger than that. It's between me and Blake."

Mary scoffed and stubbed out her cigarette. "Whatever you say, handsome. Just don't expect me to play the nursemaid when you get hurt."

"Who said I was the one getting hurt?" He smirked.

Mary stood gracefully from the desk, placing her hands on Matthew's shoulders; she stood up on tip toes.

"I know who you are, Matthew. I know what kind of man you can be," She let her lips ghost over his ear. "I also know there are two sides to a man like you. Don't forget that." She kissed him firmly on the cheek, no doubt leaving a lipstick mark. She shifted slightly, her dress slid up against her ankles; her lips ghosted over his ear lobe. "Shame your friend over there came in. You looked as though you could've done with the exserise." She kissed him again, this time against his jaw line, before sauntering out of the room.

Tom turned to Matthew. "Are you going to phone Charlie?"

But Matthew stood rooted to the spot, stunned. His brain and emotions had gone into overdrive, what _did _she know about him? How did she know who he was? And more to the point, _who _had told her things about him?

"Matthew?"

The man in question turned to his friend, blinking to regain composure.

"Hm?" He asked, scratching his forehead.

Tom groaned in frustration. "Charlie? Are you going to phone him?"

Matthew blinked and sighed. "Oh. Yeah. Where's the phone?"

* * *

Mary walked over to her seat at the table, and was about to sit down but was halted by a hand on her shoulder.

It was her father.

"Might I have a word?" He asked politely, looking to Blake as if to ask for permission to speak to his own daughter. Blake absently waved his hand and nodded.

Mary took her father's arm as he led her outside to the balcony, she looked over her shoulder to see if Matthew and Tom had reclaimed their seats but no sign. Mary hoped she didn't make a huge mistake of scaring Matthew too much.

"I saw you go off with someone." Her father said, as she walked to the balcony and leant on the railing.

"Oh. Did you now?" Mary said bluntly.

"Don't be flippant, Mary." Her father warned, leaning on the railing next to her.

"I'm not." She stated. "If you must know, I feel rather uncomfortable around Blake."

Her father's eyebrow raised. "Oh? How so?"

"Green and Kent are always following me around town, keeping tabs on what I do. I don't like it." Mary stressed, wishing she hadn't been so cold with Matthew and stayed with him. "Besides, what happened with Blake and that Anthony Gillingham?"

"Stay out of what doesn't concern you, Mary." Her father sighed.

But Mary wasn't going to back down. "I'm not a child you can control anymore. Why are things so bad between Blake and Charlie Carson? And what happened with Blake and Anthony Gillingham?"

Her father stood dumbfounded, how did she know about Blake and Charlie Carson?

"Who told you about Blake and Charlie Carson?" He questioned.

Mary wilted slightly. Blake wouldn't shut up about about Charlie and Anthony on their way to the club, and when Tom mentioned Charlie to Matthew, all Mary needed to do was add the two together. There could only be one 'Charlie' to cause Blake so much consternation and Matthew so much worry anyway. It didn't help that Matthew's mannerisms were so obviously those of a New Yorker, something she could have even picked up without talking to him.

"Mary," Her father warned.

"No one, Papa. I promise." Mary was a shit liar and she knew it.

"Mary Josephine," His tone was growing more to a growl.

"Crawley. Matthew Crawley." She breathed, turning away from her father and leaning on the railing as if she'd been winded.

_Fuck. What had she done?_


	3. The Shoe Shiner

_AU: Boston, 1934. It ends where it started, all in heady cloud of cigarette smoke, bullets, sex, class and rivalry;_

_Huge thanks to Apollo888 and Rachel Smith Cobleigh, hugs to you both. :)_

_Enjoy!_

**Corner of Bacon and Highland, ****Boston, ****Massachusetts.**** 6:30pm.**

By profession, Anthony Gillingham was a shoe shiner.

Unlike his brothers, Anthony didn't have the brains to get him into Yale or Harvard; he was the more practical of men, more hands on. But as time went on, he found that focusing on practical tasks, like shoe shining, helped him make his way, even if it was a buck to $10, depending on the customer. More importantly, it was honest work and easy work, and he went about his business and, when he was shining shoes, he didn't have to worry about complicated things, like the stock market, or the end of Prohibition. No one had a quarrel with a shoe shiner.

So when he set off for work at half past 8 in the morning, dutifully kissing his wife and two children goodbye, he fully expected that he would return home at the end of another boring day's work. He even promised to be home early. He couldn't have known that the promise he made would be broken exactly ten hours later.

_"You shine shoes, young man?" _

_Anthony looked up. A newspaper with a voice. How typical. "That I do, sir."_

_Two shoes placed themselves on the block as Anthony knelt down to retrieve his polish and rag._ _The type of shoe was different, Anthony observed, not the typical shoe worn by a Boston man. The point of the shoe was round, boot–like, with navy laces. Not the typical shoe you'd see being ordered or bought in Mason's._

_"I see the papers are lively this week."_

_"That they are, sir. Nasty business, if you don't mind my saying so."_

_"An internal war isn't it?"_

_"Not my place to say, sir." Anthony whipped the rag across the point, before reaching for the pot of polish._

_The newspaper sighed. "Shame that Crawley man hasn't got his comeuppance yet."_

_"Which Crawley are we speaking of here? The judge or the lawyer?" Anthony mumbled, polishing the point._

_The newspaper lowered slightly, but remained faceless. "The lawyer."_

_Anthony's eyebrows raised._

* * *

**Stone's Bar, Boston, ****Massachusetts.**** 11.30pm.**

"Charlie? It's Matthew."

An audible sigh at the other end of the line. _"Thank God. Did you hear about what happened?"_

"Only about half an hour ago. Any idea why?"

_"Yes…and no. Matthew, you need to come back to New York."_

"Why? I'm in no danger."

A groan. _"Yes. You are in grave danger, Matthew."_

Matthew frowned and glanced at Tom before replying to Charlie. "What do you mean? If anyone should be scared, it's him. Scared about what he'll look like when I'm done with him for what he did to Anthony."

_"No! No, Matthew. You can't."_

Matthew was surprised by Charlie's tone. "I don't understand."

_"Blake wants you dead."_

Matthew's eyes widened. "What?"

_"I can't explain it on the phone, but Blake mentioned you to Anthony, Anthony retaliated and well, you know the rest."_

Matthew swallowed. "Christ."

_"Matthew. Do you know something that I don't?"_

"I can't explain it on the phone."

_"Of course you can't. But Matthew just tell me, why does Blake want your blood?"_

Matthew thought about it. He inwardly groaned. "Not now, Charlie. _Please?"_

Matthew could hear Charlie shouting his name, not wishing to finish the sentence he had planned in his head, he took the easy option and hung up.

* * *

_ "Heard of him?" The newspaper asked._

_Anthony turned his attention to the right shoe. "Who? The Crawley lawyer? No, but I've seen him around with that Irishman."_

_"Oh? Not the type of folk that a highly respected lawyer should be hanging around with."_

_Anthony chuckled airily. "And what's the problem with being Irish, if you don't mind my asking?"_

_"They all want to cause trouble."_

_Anthony opened his mouth to say something but closed it again, he was already in a deep enough hole as it was._

* * *

**11:43****pm.**

Matthew left Tom in the hallway talking to a blonde, hoping he'd find Mary standing at the bar. Sadly, he didn't. He wondered where she'd walked to, glanced slightly over to Blake's table and noticed that the judge's seat was empty, as was Mary's. That was when worry crept into his veins. He sauntered over to the bar, a few women catching his eye as he went, but none as captivating as the woman on his mind, the woman he needed to find immediately.

"Excuse me?" Matthew asked the barman politely.

It was the same barman that had served him whiskey not a half an hour beforehand. "What can I do for you?" He asked.

"Do you have a pen and paper?" Matthew asked, running a hand through his hair.

An odd request, the barman thought, but he nevertheless obliged; finding a notepad and fountain pen on top of the safe under the bar.

Once he finished writing, Mathew tore the note off of the pad and folded it in half.

"The ravenhead in the white? Would you see that she gets this please?" He handed the paper to the barman.

The barman nodded. The doll that came in with Blake, she'd be sure to get this.

Matthew thanked him and walked away.

The barman turned and bent to put the notepad and pencil back under the bar. Once his hands were out of sight, he unfolded the note.

_Mary,_

_233 Wenton Blvrd._

_Be safe._

_Matthew._

* * *

**6:32****pm.**

_"What do you do for a living then, sir?"_

_The newspaper let out a wry chuckle. "I'm a businessman."_

_"Aren't they all?" Anthony muttered._

_"Wife? Kids?" Anthony whipped the rag across both shoes, in the hope that this would be a nice end to their conversation and his last job._

_"No. To both of those."_

_Anthony looked up slightly to ask for his pay, but stayed rooted to the spot. The small scar on the left thumb and the signet ring on the fourth finger. His eyes widened, he reached round under his apron for his gun in his back pocket. The newspaper lowered._

_A scream. A crowd of people. A man with a gunshot wound to the forehead._

_Charles Blake stood up from the shoeshine chair and, folding the blood-spattered newspaper__, he laid it on the seat cushion. Straightening his suit, he stepped down with a casual air, ignored the body, and walked to the waiting car with a happy smirk on his lips._

_The shoe shiner wouldn't be going home for dinner tonight, nor to kiss his wife and children goodnight._

_The shoe shiner lay lifeless on the floor, like so many others before._

_The shoe shiner wouldn't be shining shoes no more._


	4. The Ravenhead and The Lawyer

_AU: Boston, 1934. It ends where it started, all in heady cloud of cigarette smoke, bullets, sex, class and rivalry;_

_Huge thanks to Apollo888, for the beta, hugs to you my dear fellow :)_

_Enjoy! x_

**Home of Matthew Crawley, Boston, ****Massachusetts.**** 2am**

Matthew couldn't sleep.

Every time he would go to close his eyes, he would see Anthony's dead body lying on the ground or hear Charlie calling his name. He hadn't seen Anthony actually fall, but the idea of it was bad enough. Poor Anthony. Wrong place, wrong time, perhaps. Or so Matthew naively hoped.

It didn't help that his body couldn't get used to the summer heat, and he found that sleeping without a shirt didn't make much difference. His apartment was stifling and the air was thick. It all conspired to keep him far too agitated for sleep.

He'd thrown off his wet clothes when he got home, lying in just his pyjamas as he listened to the rain pelt against the window.

But then there was a knock at the door.

His eyes snapped open, shunting himself awake and then groaning at the slight sensation of whip lash that he'd given himself. He heard the door knock again, this time more urgent. He stretched his arms and legs, rolling his head to make sure his neck wouldn't crease later. He picked up the gun from under his pillow, padded over to the door and opened it a crack.

And there she stood. Her hair stuck to her face, her bare arms wrapped around herself to keep herself warm. The rain had clearly cleaned her out, but her dress still clung to her hips and legs.

"Can I come in, please?" Mary asked quietly.

Matthew snapped out of his trance, nodding silently before standing to the side as he let her in. As he closed the door behind her, he noticed that she was shivering.

_Just how far has she walked. _Matthew thought.

He placed the gun on the bookshelf and guided her gently into his living room, before sitting her down on the divan situated not far from the window and stoking the fire until it was roaring again.

"Whiskey?" Matthew asked.

Mary's head snapped up, clearly breaking her thought train; she nodded mutely, her eyes startled.

He poured two glasses, before handing one to Mary before sitting down beside her.

"Mary, what's going on?" he asked.

The way she looked at him would normally have made Matthew uncomfortable, but instead his heart ached for her; her doe eyes so broken and sad, unshed tears formed a shield around her pupils. He held back, stopping himself from taking her into his arms. If he showed her any kind of affection, she'd fall apart, and he didn't trust himself around her.

She took a large gulp of the whiskey and plced the glass on the table in front of them. Her empty hands went to fiddling with the threads of her dress.

"My father. He knows that I was talking to you at the club. We had a heated discussion about my position and whatnot; he told me that you were dangerous and if I spoke to you again, me, him and you would have a price to pay," she sighed. "When I came back in, the barman told me that you'd left a note," Mary glanced at him to make sure he was still listening. "I didn't want to face Charles, so I took the note and left the club. I probably left my shawl behind." Mary chuckled wryly, but Matthew wasn't laughing.

Matthew frowned. When he'd left the note, he expected she would wait for an appropriate time during the day to come see him, when a convenient excuse could be crafted and they could be more secretive. Coming over at this late hour was a risk. He didn't pretend to think that Blake's etiquette tutor could move about unnoticed.

He slowly moved closer to her, not wanting to scare her. He took her hand and locked their fingers together. "Be honest with me now, Mary." Matthew said softly.

She nodded, her eyes focused on him.

"What do you really know about Blake?" he asked. "Beyond his bad manners, I mean."

She frowned, looking down at their joined hands. "I know he's ruthless, he'll do anything to get what he wants." Her voice cracked. "What's he got to do with you, or with Anthony?"

"_Mary,_" Matthew recoiled at the mention of Anthony. He wanted to tell her, felt he needed to tell her, but how could he? He had just met her. _"Please. _I'm not ready for this discussion. I just need to know that you understand who Blake truly is and who you're dealing with." He looked her directly in the eyes, their fingers unknowingly squeezing against each other's.

She nodded, silently understanding that he was suggesting that they were both in big trouble as it was for having had their little encounter in the office from earlier, and she'd only made matters worse by being alone with him at his house. She didn't even know if she was followed, if she had been, no doubt Green or Kent would have alerted Blake by now.

But Blake wasn't shooting down the front door and hurtling abuse and bullets, so they were safe, Matthew thought. Thank God. He didn't want to think about a possible other reason for why they weren't being hunted at the moment, why Mary had beckoned him to follow her earlier that night, why she had even looked at him at all. No, he didn't want to think about any of that.

Mary spotted something on the mantelpiece above the fireplace, a photograph, no doubt probably taken in the shop at the back of _Mason's_, in a brown, flowered frame. She'd seen that particular photograph somewhere but she couldn't quite place where. She laid her head against Matthew's shoulder, feeling her eyes droop with the soothing motions of his hand rubbing circles on her lower back.

"I shouldn't be here," she said quietly.

"You shouldn't be out there," Matthew replied.

Mary blinked as her memory recalled where she'd seen the photograph and who it was.

_Madeline._

Or better known as _the late Madeline Blake._

Mary raised her head from Matthew's shoulder and stared at him, taking her hand out of his.

"What?" Matthew asked, looking at her with concern.

"What happened between you and Madeline?" Mary frowned.

"Madeline?" Matthew repeated, his eyes widening. He turned and looked at the photograph above the mantelpiece.

_Damn._

"How do you know Madeline?" Matthew countered. "She died a year ago."

"I met her shortly before she…" Mary struggled. "Shortly before she died."

* * *

**Adelaide House, ****Southampton****, New York. Early August**** 1932.**

If her memory served her correctly, Mary didn't have to speak to Madeline Blake to know who she was; even in a room of 150 people, the shrill combination of the saxophone and clarinet- she could still seek out the most talked about woman in the room.

Her soft teal eyes, her light chocolate hair tied up into a milkmaid braid, the white chiffon dress that clung to her body; it was almost as if Mary was a little jealous of the woman she hadn't even met yet. Mary, if she had the courage, would have gone towards her and introduced herself; but in a room full of men who could have you six feet under at the snap of their fingers and women who couldn't care less what happened to you, she didn't want to take the risk of appearing so bold.

"Ah, Mary."

Mary snapped out of her trance. It was Charles, with another woman on his arm. "I trust you are ready for our lesson tomorrow?" She nodded mutely, her eyes still trained on Madeline; Charles must have noticed and quickly invited Madeline over to their small gathering. Mary watched with curiosity. Madeline wasn't fazed by another woman on her husband's arm. She held herself with confidence and elegance, as a hostess should. But up close, Mary could see behind the glamour of this woman; the small cluster of discoloured bruises on her shoulder, covered by a cream of some sort, her extremely thin arms, and how small in height Madeline actually was.

"Madeline," Charles said in a false husbandly tone. "This is Mary Crawley, my new etiquette tutor."

Madeline scoffed gently into her champagne flute, but nevertheless nodded in acknowledgement. "So how long do you expect to be staying with us, Miss Crawley?"

Mary blinked slightly, taken aback by the quick comment. "Well, I…"

"Oh, it's alright Mary. Madeline was just joking." Charles said mockingly, which prompted a childish giggle from the woman on his arm, which in turn earned an unnoticed glare from his wife.

"Listen ladies, I'm sorry but I'm going to have to leave you in each other's company. It seems I've business to attend to." Charles nodded to Mary and his wife, leading himself away into the crowds with his date.

Mary turned bravely to face Madeline.

"I'm sorry you had to witness that charade, but I suppose you should get used to it now. I can't say I'm very optimistic that you'll be able to improve on my husband's…manners."

Mary frowned. "There's no need to apologize to me."

But Madeline's eyes were elsewhere. Mary followed her gaze to someone standing in the far corner of the room by the doorway leading to the balcony. He was tall, caramel blonde hair, a suit that fit in all the right places. The mystery man looked directly at Madeline and raised his glass to her with a smile.

"Who is he?" Mary asked, noticing that Madeline had dropped her head in shyness.

"He's a friend. I've been friends with him for a long time. A good man, a brave man," Madeline even blushed a little.

"A better man than Charles?" Mary questioned, raising an eyebrow.

Madeline flushed. "Oh yes. A lot better. He understands me more than Charles, as you can probably imagine." She snorted lightly and took a large gulp of champagne. "Charles doesn't know me at all."

Mary smiled meekly, unsure of what to say. Was this Madeline's lover, standing in plain sight, with her husband in the room? Or was he just a good friend as she'd said?

Madeline's gaze shifted, over Mary's shoulder to the same person, who Mary turned and noticed was exiting the room to the outside balcony. She placed the champagne flute on the silvery tray of a passing footman before placing a warm hand on Mary's arm.

"I used to be like you once. I convinced myself that I would do whatever was necessary to make my place in the world. I was willing to do whatever he told me to do, to do what was expected of me. I thought to hope for anything more, anything real, was being foolish. But then I got to know him better, and here I am. I'm telling you now, Miss Crawley, run while you can. Run while you still have a chance. You don't want to end up like me."

Madeline turned away.

"Which 'he' are you referring to?" Mary blurted out, her eyes darting to the open doors leading outside where Madeline's friend awaited her.

"Who do you think?" Madeline said, raising her eyebrow and giving Mary a genuine smile.

Mary watched her weave her way through the crowd, bound for the balcony.

* * *

**Home of Violet Crawley, Berlin****, Germany****. 8am**

"Townsend Haus, Frau Crawley speaking."

_"Aunt Violet? Is that you?"_

"Rose? What the devil are you doing calling me this early in the morning?"

_"Oh golly, Aunt Violet. You have to help me."_

Frau Crawley sighed. "Well what is it dear, I haven't got all morning."

_"Oh gosh, I don't know what to do. I didn't know who to contact, I thought maybe to talk to Matthew but I thought he wouldn't want to know," Rose sighed, "I tried to contact one of Charlie's people but they didn't pick up…oh the time difference, what an idiot I am!-"_

"Rose, stop. I can't help you if you don't tell me what's going on." Frau Crawley said sharply, as she switched the phone from one hand to another.

Silence on the other end of the line, then a sniffle.

_"Oh God, Aunt Violet." Rose sobbed "It's Atticus. He's gone missing."_


	5. Potentia Gloria pecuniam Sanguine

_AU: Boston, 1934. It ends where it started, all in heady cloud of cigarette smoke, bullets, sex, class and rivalry;_

_Huge thanks to Apollo888, for the beta, hugs to you my dear fellow :)_

* * *

**Pittsfield Airfield, Pittsfield, Massachusetts. 10am.**

Violet was on the first airplane from Berlin within half an hour of finishing her phone conversation with Rose. She may have harrumphed about having a female pilot but nevertheless obliged as it was the fastest way to get to America. She contemplated ringing Charlie, but figured she'd be wasting more time. She needed to get to Rose. They landed safely in the large field, situated at the back of Isobel Crawley's stately home, despite the light fog and wind of the early morning air. Violet thanked the pilot, who's name she learned was Ivy Stuart and eased herself down to the ground and towards the waiting car.

Through the fog, she saw a woman, whose dress flapped against her knees by the strength of the wind, with a handkerchief held to her nose.

_Rose. _

Violet observed that if Rose wasn't leaning on the car for support, she would have collapsed. The girl was as thin as a rail and as pale as a shadow. Thank God that Isobel's bodyguard and husband were flanked on either side of the young girl. Violet could sense the tension in both men as she approached them.

Violet opened her arms and Rose threw herself at her, sobbing hysterically into her neck, screaming nonsense. Violet didn't bother paying attention, just holding her and stroking her hair to soothe her. God, this girl could use her parents at a moment like this. Violet looked over the wailing girl's shoulder to the two men, their positions unchanged standing next to the car.

"Where's Isobel?" she asked the bodyguard, as Rose's wailing decreased to a series of sobs and sniffles. "Inside the house, Mrs Crawley," John Bates replied dutifully, as if he'd practiced that statement for the last half an hour. Bates held the door open as Violet bundled Rose into the backseat. Bates got in on the driver's side, and Isobel's husband, Richard Clarkson, took the passenger seat.

"Violet," Richard said. "Charlie Carson is here." Violet held on to Rose, frowning at this bit of information.

"Charlie's here?" Violet asked. "My, news _does _travel fast."

"Rose got Isobel to telegram Charlie and told him to meet us here." Richard said, wrapping his thick coat tighter around his body. "It was the safest place we could find at such short notice."

Violet nodded in understanding. In amongst all of the sobbing and hysterics, Rose was producing, they managed to sort out a place to meet; deciding upon Isobel's large gothic mansion on the edge of Pittsfield that was just 20 minutes away from New York.

They reached the old house and Bates held the car door for them again, and Richard escorted Violet and Rose inside.

"Have you seen the New York Times?" Richard asked, as Bates hung up their coats on the inside of the door. Violet shook her head. Richard pulled out a copy and unfolded it in front of Violet.

Violet read the front page quickly. Her face paled, her throat felt dry.

"Oh dear." She murmured. Things were about to get complicated, a lot more complicated indeed.

* * *

**Home of Matthew Crawley, Boston, ****Massachusetts.**** 2.30am.**

"_You_ were at the party 2 years ago? That was _you_?" Mary asked. Matthew looked away from her incredulous stare and nodded.

"I was the one she followed out to the balcony. I was amazed you didn't recognize me, but then you can forget someone so easily in 2 years."

"But not Madeline?" Mary wearily asked, afraid of what his reaction might be.

Matthew shook his head, feeling tears form in the back of his eyes and a burning lump in his throat. He hadn't spoken about Madeline since he found her obituary in the New York Times 3 days after she'd died.

"Madeline was an innocent in all this. A deer in the headlights." But Mary didn't understand. "There was always a feud between the Blake family and Charlie. It started the year of the market crash. Blake lost a huge sum of money – we're talking millions. Charlie lost a few hundred thousand but it didn't dent his pocket to the same extent. I guess Blake got jealous and started firing bullets," he sighed, "It sounds so ridiculous now, but we didn't think about it at the time. Charlie was being threatened, and we've been fighting with Blake ever since. I guess Madeline and I started our affair at the wrong time."

Mary's eyebrows raised to the heavens. "How-how did it start? When?"

He stared at her with glazed eyes. "_Please _don't make me talk about her. Mary, please," his voice cracked. "I'm not ready."

"Fine," Mary nodded. She turned for the door.

"Where are you going?" Matthew asked in panic. "You can't go back out there!"

"And why should I stay?" Mary glared at him. "Why did you ask me to come to you? Why am I even here?"

Matthew swallowed.

"I won't compete against a ghost, Matthew," Mary said quietly, and turned away again.

Matthew crossed the room faster than she expected. His hand flew out and grabbed the doorknob just as hers reached for it. She froze as his fingers brushed over the back of her hand, lingering there and stopping her from moving.

"Please Mary, don't go," Matthew said, his breath warm against her cheek. "I haven't spoken about her at all, even during our affair. I couldn't risk her name being spoken in fear that it would kill her. And I did kill her."

Mary turned toward him and saw his eyes were moist with tears. She swallowed and shook her head. "Matthew, you didn't _kill _her."

He stepped back and exhaled a long breath. Mary turned away from the door and stepped back into the room. "We were caught, somehow," Matthew muttered. "Madeline rang me a few days before she died, she was terrified. Scared for her life, scared for her children. She said that there were whispers downstairs that someone had seen us together."

"And she died a few days later," Mary guessed.

Matthew could only nod silently in confirmation.

But Mary sensed Matthew was holding something back. "And?"

"And- that's enough for one day. Maybe there some things I'd rather tell you when I can think straight." He sighed.

Mary nodded in understanding, but still felt she had unanswered questions; "I really should go," she said, quietly, standing up. "If I'm spotted here in the daylight, it'll be bad for both of us." Matthew frowned, then nodded slowly.

"Let me call you a cab," he said. "I know someone who will be discrete." Matthew made a quick phone call and stood by the window waiting. Mary didn't dare approach him. Instead, she stayed by the fireplace, glancing every now and then at Madeline Blake, the dead woman's warning to Mary ringing in her ears. _"Don't end up like me"_ she had said. But which man was she warning her about?

"All right, the sidewalk's clear," Matthew said, going to the door and peering outside. Mary kissed his cheek and bid him a good night, and walked quickly out to the cab. Matthew shut the door behind her and leant against it. He closed his eyes and pushed his tears back, vowing quietly to himself that he would not make the same mistake again.

* * *

**Home of Isobel Crawley Clarkson, Pittsfield, ****Massachusetts. ****10.15am**

Violet Crawley looked Charlie Carson directly in the eyes. "What is this mess, Charlie?"

The New York boss sighed. "Matthew is the root cause, I'm afraid."

Violet nodded. "I gathered. If only the late Mrs Blake hadn't decided to drop down dead, I'm assuming we'd have half our men that are six feet under still walking our streets."

Charlie agreed with a nod and a wave of his hand.

"Any word from the man himself?" Violet asked, her hand gripping gently at the arm rest.

"Who? Matthew? I spoke to him briefly last night. He knows the situation he's brought himself into, and he knows why. Matthew is a private man, Violet, you of all people should know that."

"Yes. I can tell." She muttered.

Charlie chuckled wryly. "But you knew about them didn't you?"

Violet nodded. "I don't think they knew that I knew about them. A party in early '29, before Black Tuesday. They were in a corner standing rather close together- she was enthralled by him, he was whispering things in her ear, making her giggle. Within half an hour they'd disappeared, no one noticed of course. I have no idea how they met, or how it started but they seemed friendly at that particular time."

"And I think Matthew knows why Anthony was killed." Charlie said flatly. "He's the reason that Anthony's dead."

Violet held up her hand. "Now Charlie, let's not go around throwing accusations. Charles Blake pulled the trigger, not Matthew," she sighed. "But more to the point, why is Atticus so important that he has to be abducted?"

Charlie sighed, then met Violet's raise eyebrow. He nodded to her before replying.

* * *

**10.35am**

Isobel Crawley sat in her kitchen, leaving Rose in the drawing room to rest after letting her cry on her shoulder when they came in from the rain. Isobel had given Violet a brief hug and a knowing look. They old friends had been through so much together that they didn't need to voice what they already knew – the days ahead were not going to be easy.

Now, she was holding a glass of Scotch in her between her hands; a gift from Reggie, her first husband, and Matthew's father, on their wedding anniversary. Her only child, probably leg deep in the mess he'd created 4 years ago. A million options ran through her mind. She needed to help her son in any way she could. Violet and Charlie were dear friends and cared about Matthew in their own way, but they both had to keep a low profile and be wary of what they did and who they spoke to. Isobel needed someone else, someone on the other side who could help Matthew.

Then it struck her, she threw back the Scotch in one gulp, using it as Dutch courage and picked up the telephone. She knew which number to dial and took a deep breath.

The only person who could help her boy, the only person who _would _help her boy. And probably the only person who would take her family serious enough and save Atticus before it was too late.

"Hello? Yes, I was wondering if I could speak to someone." Isobel exhaled slowly, "His name is Lieutenant Henry Talbot."

* * *

_Potentia. Gloria pecuniam. Sanguine- Power. Money. Glory. Blood_


	6. Fidelis ad Mortem

_AU: Boston, 1934. It ends where it started, all in a heady cloud of cigarette smoke, bullets, sex, class and riviraly;_

_Thankyou to my beta Apollo, much appriecated my dear._

_Enjoy. x_

* * *

**Cambridge Police Department, Cambridge****, Massachusetts****. 11am**

Sergeant Alfred Nugent knew when his boss, Lieutenant Henry Talbot was stressed. The man was usually calm and relaxed, even when the rest of the department was a mess all around him. When the Lieutenant launched the Massachusetts State Book of Policing through the air from his office to the briefing room, though, his mood was obvious. Sadly, Alfred had questions that needed to be answered, but he wasn't sure if he wanted the answers at the moment.

Alfred knocked gingerly on his boss's office door and stuck his head slowly through the crack. He observed quietly that the files that were in a neat pile on the desk 2 hours beforehand were now scattered across the floor, along with some books and other papers. Lieutenant Talbot was seated at his desk, staring vacantly out the window. Alfred could almost see actual steam rising from the man's ears.

Alfred coughed quietly to see if he could catch his boss's attention, but to no avail.

"Sir?" he said finally, after clearing his throat a second time.

Henry looked up at him slowly, his eyes narrow as slits. Henry blinked and sighed. "What is it, Alfred?"

Alfred stepped inside and shut the door behind him. "Is there anything I should know, Sir? Anything that any of us can do to help?"

The Lieutenant leant back in his chair and exhaled. "Arrest Charles Blake? Bring back Madeline Blake from the dead? Or perhaps save my best friend from having a bullet put through his brain? Any of those things would be lovely, Alfred"

Alfred swallowed and tried to smile politely. If the Lieutenant had his sarcasm back, then maybe his mood wasn't so bad. "I take it Charles Blake has reappeared on our radar then Sir?"

"I doubt he was ever off of it, but yes, and don't we damn well know it." The older man said, running his hand through his hair. "It's alright, Alfred. You can go back to your desk." He pulled his telephone and began to dial a number.

"Actually, Alfred. Find me the file on Madeline Blake and find me a decent chauffer- and that doesn't mean Ethel Parks!"

Alfred nodded, dutifully and left the room.

* * *

**Home of Matthew Crawley, Boston, ****Massachusetts****. 11.25am**

The telephone rang.

Matthew didn't want to answer it. He wanted to stay in bed, but to stay in bed would make him think about Madeline, then think about Mary, then think about Blake and repeat the cycle all over again, as he'd done since Mary left his home 7 hours beforehand. He morbidly realised that he hadn't cried or wallowed this much since he'd received the news that his father had perished aboard the Titanic when he was 12.

The telephone kept ringing.

Matthew groaned, throwing the sheets off his sweaty limbs and finding the strength to wake up and stand; he walked slowly, knowing that the telephone would probably not ring off until he answered. He walked slowly towards the phone, rubbing his eyes to wake himself up as he went.

His hands shook as he picked up the phone.

"Hello?" He yawned.

"Matthew, what took you so long to answer? Are you alright?"

His mother's voice woke him up immediately.

"Mother? What a lovely surprise. What can I do for you?" Matthew said, producing a false cheery tone.

His mother sighed. "Matthew, please don't play games with me. I'm your mother"

Something clicked in Matthew's brain. How did his mother know something was amiss? She wouldn't call him about Anthony, which must mean… "Mother? What's going on?"

He heard an audible sigh on the other end of the phone. "Atticus has been abducted and Violet and Charlie are here"

Matthew had to process this for a few seconds. "What?"

"Is there anything you want to tell me?" His mother said in the same calm tone she'd used since he was a child.

Matthew scrubbed a hand over his face and groaned. "Not yet, Mother. But all in good time."

"You promise?"

How could he lie to the woman who raised him? "I promise. Now what's happened to Atticus?"

* * *

**Home of Isobel Crawley Clarkson, Pittsfield****, Massachusetts****. 2.30pm**

Never in his life and all the time in the police force did Henry ever think he would be sitting in the same room as the widow of the head of The Crawley Crime Family and the Head of the New York firm. To be honest, he was shaking in his boots, but trying his best to hide it. He kept telling himself that he was doing this as a favour to Isobel and probably the only way to save his best friend from an early grave. The ends justified the means. One said that a lot in the police force.

"Thank you for your time, Lieutenant," Violet Crawley nodded to him. Her eyes were as sharp as daggers, he imagined.

Henry produced a small smile and nodded politely.

"We need your help" said the sharp laced widow. "To find Atticus"

The New York boss handed him a file. "It has a witness statement from Atticus' wife detailing the whole thing"

Henry nodded in thanks and fiddled with his hands in his lap; he glanced up and saw Isobel lingering in the doorway.

"But in order for you to find Atticus, we need you to do something else." The widow smiled and tilted her head slightly to the side.

Henry already knew what was coming, so he spoke before she could finish. Best to take back at least a little bit of ground. He was a Lieutenant, after all, not some glorified errand boy.

"You need me to bring Matthew in," Henry declared.

* * *

_Fidelis ad Mortem- Faithful unto death._


	7. Heal thy Father, Forgive thy sins

_AU: Boston, 1934. __It ends where it started, all in heady cloud of cigarette smoke, bullets, sex, class and rivalry;_

_Huge thanks to Apollo888 for taking the time to BETA. :)_

_Enjoy! x_

* * *

**Home of Mary Crawley, Roxbury, Boston, ****Massachusetts****. 11:00am, The next day.**

Mary woke with a start.

Her body was covered in sweat, her sheets were damp and her hair clung to her neck and face. She swallowed and cleared her dry throat. She had slept fitfully since returning from Matthew's. Even breathing seemed difficult. She kept hearing Madeline's last words to her in her ears, warning her. Why couldn't she forget them?

After she got her maid to draw her bath, got dressed for the day and had breakfast, she made the decision to call Matthew. She had to find out what he was holding back. It had been playing on her mind all the way home, but she didn't want to appear desperate. She paced up and down in front of the telephone in her hallway, before slowly dialling and placing the receiver up to her ear.

"_Hello?"_ Came a tired voice.

Mary's breath caught in her throat. "Matthew? It's Mary"

"_Mary? You made it home okay?"_ Genuine concern in his voice, made her shut her eyes and smile.

"Yes, yes. I did, thank you." Mary sighed. "Listen, Matthew. We need to talk."

"_Do we?" _There was surprise in his voice.

"Yes. If you don't mind, I'll meet you at the Café on the edge of Roxbury?" Mary said, quickly.

"_Um, of course. Yes, I'll meet you. Give me 10 minutes, it won't take me long to get there." _

They said their goodbyes and hung up.

Mary caught her breath and leant against the wall.

* * *

**Cambridge Police Department, C****ambridge, Massachusetts. 4.45pm, The previous day.**

Henry and Alfred sat on the floor of the briefing room with papers and glasses of whiskey, surrounding them.

"It says here that Atticus Aldridge was abducted in broad daylight with the identity of the abductors in full view. Are they trying to tell us something, Sir?" Alfred said, handing him Rose's witness statement.

Henry sighed. "Yes, Alfred. It means that Blake is making it easy, he's building a trap for Matthew. He thinks by taking away members of Matthew's circle, it will weaken him."

"But it won't?" Alfred guessed.

Henry shook his head. "No. Something like this won't catch Matthew's attention at all. He's not stupid, for Christ's sake. I studied Law with the man. He's absolutely meticulous. Doesn't do anything without careful thought, if he can help it. And if it involves Charles Blake, he better tread carefully."

"So what do we do?" Alfred asked, picking another piece of paper off of the floor.

"_I, _will go find Matthew; and _you_, will try and follow Jimmy Kent" Henry said, before throwing his whiskey back in one and standing up.

"Jimmy Kent?" Alfred stammered, following suit of his boss. "Are you trying to get me killed, Sir?"

Henry chuckled and placed a hand on his sergeant's shoulder "Oh, Alfred. Jimmy Kent is one of the dumbest men walking, he screams when a fly lands in his hair."

"And it might lead us to Atticus Aldridge?" Alfred said, hopefully.

Lieutenant Talbot shook his head. "No, Alfred. It _will _lead us to Atticus Aldridge"

* * *

**Cafe Waltz, Roxbury, Boston, ****Massachusetts.**** 11.30am**

Mary ordered tea. Matthew poured.

They sat in a comfortable silence, seated inside the café, as Mary tried to formulate what she was going to ask him and how. Matthew cleared his throat to break the ice.

"Mary? You said you wanted to talk"

Mary looked up him with wild eyes. "Hm? Oh yes, I did. Um, yes. About last night."

Matthew raised his eyebrow. "Oh? What about it?"

Mary took a deep breath. "I felt as if you were holding something back from me. Whatever it is, Matthew. I feel as if I have a right to know. If there's something between you and Charles, then it may affect me, and I would like to think you would want to be honest with me about that."

The person sat opposite her raised his eyebrows. "Are you sure you want to know?"

Mary nodded confidently.

Matthew closed his eyes and sighed. When he finally opened them again, he looked down at the table at first. "There is a reason behind why I can't let Madeline go so easily. Why it hurts so much to talk about her, why I've hidden her name for so long. Please understand, Mary that besides Tom and someone else, you are the only person that knows."

He looked up at her with a fierce gaze. "You can't tell anyone."

"I wouldn't do that," Mary said. "What is it? What was it between you and Madeline? You were lovers?"

"We were," Matthew nodded.

"And?"

Matthew swallowed, and looked her directly in the eyes.

"And one of her children was mine."


	8. Homecoming

_AU: Boston, 1934. __It ends where it started, all in heady cloud of cigarette smoke, bullets, sex, class and rivalry;_

_Huge thanks to Apollo888 for taking the time to BETA. :)_

_Enjoy! x_

* * *

**Cafe Waltz, Roxbury, Boston, ****Massachusetts. ****11am**

Mary stared at him. She couldn't formulate any words at all, her throat had gone dry; she had thousands of questions going round her head but she knew if she spoke them, that they wouldn't come out right.

And to think, she had asked him here so she could find out what his true feelings were for Madeline, whether she was just a fling to him, a distraction, or a pawn. Never did Mary imagine _this_.

"Which one?" Mary asked quietly.

Matthew blinked, seemingly dumbfounded by her question. "What do you mean?"

She sighed in annoyance. "Which one was yours? The eldest? The youngest?"

"The middle," Matthew said quickly. "Clara. She was born in June of '30, exactly a year after we started our affair."

Mary nodded mutely, unsure of what to say. "Have you seen her? Clara?"

"No. I've never met her, I could never risk it. My own daughter and I can't even see her" Matthew's voice cracked, the thought of Clara growing up without her mother hurt him enough; but the thought of her not knowing who he was, shattered him.

Seeing Matthew so distressed made her think. She saw Clara every day, for a four year old she was quite an intelligent little thing; beautiful like her mother, sharp blue eyes- that Mary now saw that the girl had inherited from her father. Her governess remarked that she had the mind of a child aged two years older, that she read advanced for her age- her intelligence was something that she must have got from her father.

"Matthew?" Mary asked shakily.

The man in question glared at her, the pain still visible in his eyes.

"What if you wrote a letter to Clara?" She suggested.

Matthew shook his head and chuckled bitterly. "She's a child, Mary. A little girl. I care that she's advanced and for that I'm proud, but she wouldn't understand. Besides, I can't put her in danger by getting in touch with her. If Charles found out…"

"But she already knows who you are!" Mary protested.

Matthew's eyes widened. "What?"

Mary's breathing was shaky. "Well, not exactly, but she does know about you. Madeline told me everything a few days before she died"

Matthew exhaled sharply, stood up and walked out.

* * *

**11:10am**

"Hello Matthew"

He whipped round, and smirked. "Henry. How nice to see you again"

Henry's face remained a stone. "I need you to come with me."

Matthew swallowed, his smirk disappearing.

_Shit._

* * *

**Adelaide House, ****Southampton, New York. 1933**

Madeline Blake was dressed in black.

For some unknown reason, Mary found this odd. She'd discovered that the Mistress of the house normally wore bright colours and was cheery in her tone- but today was disturbingly different.

"Ah, Miss Crawley" The lady stopped Mary as she was descending the stairs from seeing to the children. Mary stalled dutifully at the bottom and noticed that Madeline had a wild, scared look in her eyes, her cheeks were flushed. "I was wondering if I could have a word"

Mary could only produce a small smile and nod.

"In the library then?"

Mary could only follow the small woman into the library and sit down across from her.

"I have something very private to confess to you" Madeline began. "Something that will affect the welfare of my children and possible destroy my marriage"

Mary frowned. "Ma'am?"

Madeline shut her eyes and sighed. "One of my children isn't my husband's. But rest assured, my child knows who its father is; I've told it every day that it's loved better by another man. It knows her father's face, she knows what he sounds like." The young woman's voice cracked.

"Ma'am? Forgive me. But why are you telling me this?" Mary fiddled with her hands nervously in her lap.

Madeline sniffled and dried her eyes. "Because I'm scared for my life. There is a rumour that I have been seen with my lover, and I'm afraid that my husband will find out"

Mary's eyes widened. Madeline couldn't be talking about the man she was with at the party a year ago, it couldn't be right. "What would you like me to do?"

Madeline's voice was shaking. "Tell my child the same stories I told them, tell them about their father; tell them I loved them, that I'll miss them"

Mary gasped quietly. "Ma'am? Are you sure that you're okay?"

Madeline stared up at her with scared eyes and cleared her throat. "It's apparent I've said too much. Forgive me, Miss Crawley, I've wasted enough of your time" she stood up and smoothed out her dress. "I'll see you at dinner" and with that she walked out of the room, choking back a sob.

* * *

**Home of Isobel Crawley Clarkson, Pittsfield, Massachusetts. 12.34pm**

The ride from Boston to Pittsfield wasn't as boring as Matthew expected, much to his surprise. The mid-morning traffic was light and the skies were starting to grey, thanks to the September air.

"This is about Atticus isn't it?" Matthew asked, breaking the silence between him and Henry as the car drew closer to his Mother's estate.

Henry only nodded. They used to say that silence was golden, but with Henry, it wasn't that way. In fact, it was completely the opposite.

"This isn't just about Atticus, is it Henry?" Matthew asked again, this time catching his friend off guard.

But Henry didn't say a word, he just looked back out of the window at Isobel's large mansion, for the second time in two days.

But Matthew got the message. "I didn't think so" he muttered.

Matthew found in the 14 years since he left home, that the house hadn't changed at all; the ornaments were still in the same spot, and John Bates hadn't aged. Thank God for John Bates, he mused, his dear mother would be lost without him.

He was shocked as he came into the parlour and saw his boss and the country's most powerful woman sitting patiently a few steps away from him. They'd summoned him to find Atticus, no doubt, probably with Henry's help. He shut his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, then righted himself and held their gaze as walked to the centre of the room.

"Charlie" he breathed, acknowledging the older man.

"Matthew" Carson said, holding out his hand, which Matthew gratefully shook.

Matthew went to Violet next, taking her preferred hand and bowed his head slightly.

"Violet. It's been a while."

The woman gave him a thin smile. "It's taken you awhile, Matthew," she smiled, wryly. "But it's nice to see you all the same"

Matthew sighed with relief, before sitting down on the divan opposite Charlie and Violet, while Henry stayed standing behind him and he noticed his mother lingered in the doorway from the kitchen.

"In order for us to find Atticus," Charlie stated. "We need to know the whole truth. Everything, Matthew. Nothing hidden, the whole truth."

Matthew sighed. "Are you sure this will help Atticus?"

All persons present nodded.

"It began in 1929," Matthew began, "The day of the Wall Street Crash…"


	9. Revelations

_AU: Boston, 1934. __It ends where it started, all in heady cloud of cigarette smoke, bullets, sex, class and rivalry;_

_Huge thanks to Apollo888 for taking the time to BETA. :)_

_Enjoy! x_

**Home of Isobel Crawley Clarkson, Pittsfield, Massachusetts. 1.30pm**

A pin could have dropped and it probably would have made Violet jump. Matthew sat with his head in hands, his shoulders shaking. Henry placed a comforting hand on his friend's back, knowing he couldn't soothe him, but trying to at least keep him grounded in some fashion. The Lieutenant looked between the three older people, waiting for someone to speak in response to Matthew's revelation.

It was Isobel that broke first. She walked over to her son, sitting beside him and pulling him into an embrace, cradling him against her as she'd done when he was a small child. But he wasn't a child anymore, he was a man. A father. A father, who was denied access to his daughter; he was a man who loved, and lost that love so brutally.

"Matthew," Violet said quietly, a tone unusual for her. "Anthony died because he was a go-between for you and Madeline?"

Matthew remained against his Mother's shoulder, and simply nodded, while drying his eyes with the back of his hands.

Violet and Charlie shared a worried glance.

Matthew sat up straight, still holding onto his Mother's hand and cleared his throat. "Anthony was a messenger for Madeline primarily. I gave all my letters and messages to him, with the safe confidence that they would get there undetected. However, in the last few days of her life, Madeline was sure that someone had cottoned on to us and well, Anthony had to die"

"And the gun? Why the gun?" Charlie pressed.

Matthew looked at him pointedly. "You know why, Charlie. He was my right hand man, he had to have a gun."

Charlie nodded and leant back in his chair.

* * *

**Cambridge Police Department, Cambridge, Massachusetts. 1.30pm**

If he didn't find that file, Alfred felt as if he could lose his job as quickly as he could lose his head. He was throwing open every cupboard, drawer and filing cabinet and cursed as no luck came to him. He scanned quickly across every desk and on the floor, but there was no blasted brown file in sight. He sighed in frustration and placed his hands on his hips.

"Sergeant?"

Alfred looked up at one of the POs from downstairs looking at him curiously. The PO held up a slightly tatty brown file with a red ribbon tied around it. The sight of the missing file made Alfred internally cheer and jump up and down. He took the file, then told the PO that he could go. He untied the ribbon carefully and opened the file, slowly scanning each piece of paper for the information he wanted. When he did finally find what he was seeking, Alfred pulled the telephone from the desk and rang the number for Isobel Crawley's home.

* * *

**Adelaide House, ****Southampton, New York. 5.30pm **

Clara Elspeth Blake had decided that she didn't like her father, and would not for the rest of the evening.

No, the four year old thought, I hate him. She missed her darling Mother dearly, she missed the morning snuggles when her father was away; she missed the secret stories about the missing man in her life in the nursery when her brother was out with her father and she missed her mother's laugh and bright smile, always singing little songs as she went about their home.

Clara seated herself at the top of the grand staircase, holding tightly onto her mother's locket. Her long mousy hair was loose from her braid and her eyes were red and puffy. She had run away from her Nanny, stomped her feet and screamed. She wanted Miss Crawley, the nice woman, who was always kind to her and her siblings; re-telling the stories that her Mother used to tell her and telling her the secret stories before she went to sleep each night.

With sweaty palms, Clara opened her Mother's locket with as much care as she could muster. Fresh fat tears of frustration rolled down her cheeks as she looked at the two faded pictures. She always admired this locket, as it never strayed from her Mother's neck. The two photographs were treasured by Clara now – a smallpicture of the man she didn't know and the other picture of Clara and her older brother.

Clara Elspeth Blake was found asleep at the top of the grand staircase by Miss Crawley and carried back to bed. Mary tucked the locket safely away in the child's jewelry box.

* * *

**Home of Isobel Crawley Clarkson, Pittsfield, Massachusetts. 2pm**

Matthew stood in the kitchen, watching as the rain slid down the window pane. His mind was blank and vacant. He felt numb and didn't have a care about anything, well almost anything.

"Matthew?"

Startled, he almost jumped off his feet as he spun around.

"Christ, Henry! You have a real habit of scaring the living shit out of me, don't you?!"

Henry chuckled. "Sorry, mate. But I've just got a phone call from my office, and they've found the report showing Madeline's cause of death"

Matthew's eyes widened. "Go on. I've been waiting a year to hear this, tell me."

Henry gestured for his friend to sit down. Henry sat down in the chair opposite him and took a deep breath, before looking Matthew directly in the eyes.

"Her post mortem tells us that she suffered substantial bruising on her rib cage and limbs, especially her shoulders and arms, she suffered cracked ribs and torn ligaments-"

"Was she in pain? In the end?" Matthew managed to choke out, tears fell silently down his cheeks.

Henry shut his eyes and sighed heavily. "Matthew, are you sure you want to know?"

Matthew's temper rose in frustration. "Henry, don't do this. Please! Tell me!"

A cough interrupted them. It was John Bates.

Mathew stood up quickly and walked over to window and scrubbed his face.

"What is it, John?" Henry asked, eyeing Matthew closely.

"We've received a tip-off, Sir. About the whereabouts of Atticus Aldridge, Sir."


	10. Der suf iz noent

_Hello! What I failed to mention is that chapter 9 was the __penultimate chapter of Part 1. This chapter is the end of Part 1. Thanks to everyone who has been reading this story since the begining, it has been lovely to have you. A big thanks to Apollo for the patience required and for being the best BETA a writer could ask for. I will be back, just going a few weeks of hiatus- I'm a busy person._

_Der suf iz noent is Dutch for The end is near._

_Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you the end of part 1 of A Walk Among The Speakeasies._

_Much love (and see you soon), _

_P. X_

* * *

On the evening of the 1st October 1934, two days after receiving the tip off, Lieutenant Henry Talbot and Sergeant Alfred Nugent assembled a 10 man task force on the 3rd floor of the CPD. Their mission was simple – discreetly tail Jimmy Kent in an attempt to find Atticus Aldridge. All of the men were handed newspaper photographs of the man so their quarry was clearly identified. Both the Lieutenant and his Sergeant mused in the short drive to Boston that they hoped they could pull this operation off with minimal fuss and no dead bodies. They weren't overly bothered if there was some fuss involved, but they prayed there would be no dead bodies this time.

The men were not dressed in their uniforms. It would be a catastrophe if the operation fell apart just because one man actually looked like a cop. Henry was confident they all were properly trained to not only pursue the surveillance, but remain unnoticed. The only possible wrinkle was the fact that Matthew had insisted on going along with him.

"What time are we set for?" Matthew asked, as Henry looked through the rear view mirror for the third time in 10 minutes.

"In about 20 minutes time, we ambush that apartment over there." Henry pointed to an expensive looking apartment with fancy steel gates, situated just ahead of them. "That apartment belongs to Richard Carlisle"

Matthew's eyebrows raised. "Not the corrupt Newspaper magnet?"

Henry nodded in confirmation. "The very same."

Matthew swallowed. "Christ. Why do they think that Atticus is here?"

The Lieutenant looked at his friend pointedly. "Do you want me to answer that?"

But Matthew knew the answer and shook his head. They would have been right on time for the ambush, until they heard a gunshot ring out into the air. Matthew and Henry stared at each other, before getting swiftly of the car. Henry whistled for his men to get out of their positions and ambush, as they planned, a few men appearing at a time. Alfred, like a loyal dog, stayed at Henry's side and handed him a crowbar; the three men walked determinedly towards the gates, Henry slammed the crowbar against the lock and pushed- and the gate swung open with a high pitched whine.

Henry shouted his orders quickly and with authority. "5 men round the back and the rest of you, at the front!" He stood and held Matthew back. "I think its best you stay outside. If he decides to run, you are going to be the last person he'd expect to see."

Matthew nodded mutely, and watched powerless as Henry pulled out his gun and handed Alfred the crowbar. _This is going to get messy, _he thought. He backed away a bit, a nervous sensation in the pit of his stomach.

Over a period of 10 minutes, all Matthew kept hearing was that the men had not found Atticus, but nevertheless they kept bringing out evidence that they said was important for some reason or another.

He was going to be in for a long night.

* * *

On the morning of the 22nd June 1930, in the master bedroom on the second floor of Adelaide House, Madeline Blake started to fear for her life. Her waters had broken in the early hours of the morning, and now she was in the full stages of labour. The midwife and her lady's maid stood by on either side of her and the family's physician sat poised at the end of the bed.

"Gwen," She panted, "I want you to do something for me."

Gwen gripped her mistresses' hand tighter. "Anything, ma'am. Anything"

Madeline rode out a contraction, screaming until her throat was dry; the midwife placed a cold cloth on her forehead to soothe her. "There is a letter. In the middle draw of my vanity table" she groaned. "There is a letter. Addressed to him, take it-" she screamed and was encouraged by the physician to push.

A babe's wail shattered the silence of the room; Madeline groaned in relief and leant back against the soft pillows. She shared a look with her maid, who nodded in understanding of what her mistress would have said. The maid congratulated her and scurried from the room, now in clear understanding of what she had to do.

Madeline, sat up slowly, wincing. She produced a small smile and was handed a babe wrapped in a white towel. Madeline began to cry. The infant's eyes blinked open- blue, sharp and intense like it's father's. A little hand peeped out from under the towel and reached up to its mother.

"It's a girl" said the Midwife quietly.

Madeline laughed softly and sniffed. She bent down and placed a kiss to her daughter's fair head. "Hello, my beautiful girl," she whispered. "You are so very much loved, my darling." The new mother hoarsely thanked the Midwife and physician, indicating that she wanted some alone time with her new baby.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind the Midwife, Madeline allowed herself to cry without reservation or restraint. She kissed daughter's little face and hands, whispering over and over about how much she loved her.

"My beautiful Clara," she sobbed. "Your father loves you more than you'll ever know." Tears fell onto the infant's head, "I'm so sorry that you may never get to know him."

Madeline cried and her daughter cried with her.

* * *

4 hours after the task force had ambushed Richard Carlisle's apartment, Matthew and Henry were sat on the front doorstep.

"Still nothing?" Matthew asked, covering his mouth with the back of his hand as he yawned.

Henry shook his head, wiping his eyes from underneath his glasses, as tiredness and fatigue washed over him. He almost wished he hadn't refused to have dinner with his wife and the children. Not finding Atticus was immensely disappointing.

That was until one of the POs appeared looking rather flustered in the doorway. "Sir," he said, his breathing heavy. "You need to come down to the basement. It's urgent."

Henry looked at Matthew and raised an eyebrow, before standing and following the PO inside the apartment. Matthew rubbed his hands together nervously before standing and following behind Henry.

"We weren't aware of the false wall until we heard noises coming from behind it," the PO explained as he led Henry and Matthew into what appeared to be a basement area. Four other POs gathered around a large opening in what they had previously assumed was the outside wall of the building. The four officers all averted their eyes from Henry as he passed them.

At first, neither Henry or Matthew saw anything when they peered into the gap. It was until their eyes adjusted to the shadows of the inner room that they both blinked, shared a look with each other and exhaled heavily.

Sat against the back wall was Atticus Aldridge, ragged, bruised and bloodied. A gun hung loosely in one hand, and next to him was the dead body of Richard Carlisle.


	11. Romans 13:10

_HELLO! I've realised it has been little over a month since I posted the end of Part 1. My hiatus was much needed and thanks to dear Apollo, I've returned in full force and will be updating when I can._

_So now dear readers, I present to you...Part 2 of A Walk Among The Speakeasies._

_Enjoy!_

_P. x_

* * *

3 months after Atticus Aldridge was found and then returned to his grateful fiancée and family; 3 months after the 6 men of the CPD buried Richard Carlisle in a shallow grave in the middle of the night and 3 months since Matthew Crawley took a leap and made contact with his daughter.

* * *

**Cambridge Police Department, Cambridge, Massachusetts. Late January 1935**

Lieutenant Henry Talbot always believed that he would never see Violet Crawley, widow of the head of The Crawley Crime Family, sat in a Cambridge Police Department Interrogation room. It was impossible. The day would never come. The past few months had taught him not to believe everything that he once believed. Because somehow the impossible was happening. It was happening at half 4 in the morning.

Alfred turned on the disk recorder and motioned for the interview to begin.

Henry cleared his throat. "Atticus. I'd like you to recount to me the events of 27th September of last year, please? As much as you can."

Atticus took a glance at Violet, who nodded for him to start. The man being questioned exhaled. "You've probably read from Rose's statement that I was abducted in broad daylight, by two men and taken back to that newspaper man's apartment."

"And the two men were who?" Henry asked, wanting to confirm what he already knew.

"Jimmy Kent and Nicholas Green"

Henry nodded. "What happened to you when you were in that basement for those 5 days?"

Both the Sergeant and Lieutenant noticed that the colour from the young man's face drained almost completely, that his hands began to visibly shake.

"Atticus?" Henry asked again.

Atticus shook his head, his hands still shaking.

Alfred looked to his boss and whispered in his ear. "A five minute break, Sir?"

Henry nodded and put the recorder on pause before standing up with Alfred and leaving the room.

* * *

**Home of Matthew Crawley, Boston, Massachusetts. 7.30am**

Matthew sat at his desk, re-reading the little handwritten note from Clara for the fourth time that morning. It was the most recent one of the 5 notes he'd received from his daughter in the 3 months since he first made contact.

_'Dear Papa,' _it read. Matthew couldn't quite believe it. This was one of the two notes where Clara had started calling him Papa and it warmed his heart in the same way that it terrified him.

'_I hope you are well. I have been very ill these last few days, but Miss Crawley says I should be better by tomorrow.' _

Tears formed in the back of his eyes. Thank God for Mary, he thought.

'_Maybe one day we can see one another and we can be happy.' _

Tears started rolling down his cheeks. Such an innocent little girl, she was, never having caused a moment's sorrow. - If only she had been born in different circumstances.

"Oh Clara" He wept quietly.

_'I will write again soon. I love you, Papa.' _

Matthew wept harder, his stroked his fingers over the handwriting- so clever for one so young.

_Clara. _

Matthew wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, placed the note to one side, pulled out a blank sheet of paper and pulled out his fountain pen.

_Darling Clara,_

* * *

**Cambridge Police Department, Cambridge, Massachusetts. 4.45am**

Henry cleared his throat, as Alfred turned the recorder on again.

"Now, Atticus, take as much time as you need," Henry said, reassuringly. "What happened from the 27th of September until the night we found you?"

Atticus took a quick glance at Violet, before taking a deep breath. "They blindfolded me and took me down to the basement where you found me. They didn't do a thing to me that night, they gave me food and water, but that was about it. It wasn't until the 28th and 29th that they started with the beatings- shouting at me, attempting to get answers out of me-"

"What were the questions?" Henry asked, intrigued.

Atticus looked straight at him. "About Matthew. If I knew of his whereabouts, if I knew anything incriminating about him. About a woman-"

"A woman?" Henry interrupted quickly, "What woman?"

"A woman called Madeline. That apparently Matthew had an affair with her, that she was Blake's wife. I didn't know what they were on about so I didn't answer," Atticus chuckled bitterly, "But of course that earned me another blow to the stomach. At night I would overhear them talking about ways of to bring down Matthew and that abducting me was one of them, because I was part of his social circle."

Henry and Alfred shared a look. "Where does Richard Carlisle fit in to all of this?"

"Carlisle? He became Blake's lawyer after losing his newspaper fortune, shortly after the Wall Street Crash. He appeared every so often, well I was in _his _basement after all. On the night you found me, Carlisle was taunting me about my religion and kept punching me in different places; telling me that he could render me infertile, that I would never be able to have children."

Alfred's eyes widened. "And the gun? Where did you get the gun, Atticus?"

Atticus looked a little startled, being questioned by the silent Sergeant, but nevertheless answered. "It was either Kent's or Green's, you could never be too sure with those two. One minute they carried a weapon, the next they didn't. But on that night, one of them left their gun behind"

"What made you shoot him?" Henry asked, plainly.

"He was laughing manically, kept going on over and over about how he could bring down Matthew with the amount of information he had on him. He kept saying the name Madeline, but he wasn't clear on what the name meant to Matthew, and how it would bring him down." He took a shaky breath to calm himself. "Then he went on about how Charles Blake was a fool to mess with a man as dangerous as Matthew, and how Richard would outlive Charles and then he would be the one to bring down Matthew"

But Henry and Alfred were stumped. "_A man as dangerous as Matthew? _What does that mean?" Henry asked, scratching his forehead.

"Well, there is a rumour that he was in business with not just The New York Firm," Atticus said.

Henry's eyebrows raised in confusion.

Atticus continued. "Rumour is he's also working for the Chicago Outfit. Handing out threats and seeing them through, seems to be the word that's going round"

Henry met Violet's eye across the table, shut his eyes and sighed. _Shit, Matthew. You're fucked._


	12. Clara, the Bright Saint

_A/N: Hello! Yes, in case you were wondering, I am still alive. I've just been extremely busy and things have taken over, and well AWATS has suffered a little. So so sorry. Big thanks and hugs to dear Apollo, who deals and revamps my writing! _

_Hope you all had a wonderful Christmas and New Year._

_Enjoy!_

_P. x_

* * *

**Southampton Main Street, So****uthampton, New York. Mid February 1935. 3.21pm**

Clara Blake was about to make a gangster cry. She just didn't know it yet.

It happened 3 days after she met her Papa formally for the first time; they met in a crowded café in the main street of Southampton with Miss Crawley acting as chaperone, seated not far from the reunion between father and daughter.

_"Miss Crawley is awfully nice, Papa. She tells me stories at bedtime" Clara chirped, her long blonde curls bounced on her shoulders with excitement as she picked a biscuit off of the plate in front of her._

_"Does she now? What type of stories does she tell you?" Matthew asked, his eyes never leaving his daughter's face. _

_"She tells me stories about Mama, about how pretty she was and how kind she was," Clara took a little nibble of her biscuit. "Did you think Mama was pretty, Papa?" _

_Matthew looked down at his daughter, her face so bright and hopeful. It was as if the answer that he gave to her question was more valuable to her than anything else in the world. He cleared his throat. "Yes, my little darling. I thought she was very pretty"_

_"You mean, you thought she was beautiful?" Clara asked innocently._

_Matthew chuckled and ruffled her hair affectionately. "Yes, Clara. I thought she was beautiful. You must get it from somewhere, don't you think?"_

_Clara nodded and hummed happily, seemingly satisfied with her Papa's answer, kissed his cheek and carried on eating her biscuit._

_Matthew smiled adoringly at her, before turning to Mary, who sat quietly in the far corner. He caught her eye and smiled, before mouthing the words 'Thank you'._

Just an hour before she made a gangster cry, Clara was out doing errands with her older brother, Raymond and Miss Crawley. They met a kind man called Henry. He said he was a Policeman, so Clara trusted him, and he said he knew her Papa, which made her trust him even more.

"Is it possible for me to take Clara on an adventure?" Clara overheard Henry asking Miss Crawley politely.

Miss Crawley sighed and thought about it for a second or two. "I suppose a _little _adventure wouldn't hurt, and she ought to be safe with a member of the police. But, she must be returned by 6 for dinner and a bath."

Clara looked up at Miss Crawley with a big smile. "Thank you, Miss Crawley," the little girl took Henry's outstretched hand. "I promise to be good and not talk to any strangers."

And on that agreement, they parted. Clara's little hand safely entrusted in Henry's as they approached the awaiting police car. Henry seated himself beside Clara and asked the driver to get moving.

"Where are we going, Mr Policeman?" Clara asked, fiddling with a button on her coat.

"We are going to see a friend of your Papa's," The Lieutenant noticed the little girl's eyes lighten up at the mention of her Papa.

"Is he a good friend?" Clara asked, staring Henry directly in the eyes. It startled him then how much she looked like her father, how much trust this little girl had put in him in only a few minutes of knowing him.

Finally, when he formulated an answer. Henry chuckled to himself and looked his best friend's daughter in the eyes. "I'll let you decide, Clara."

* * *

**Richmond Town Hotel, Staten Island, New York. 5.10pm**

"You sent Clara where?!" Matthew shouted, slamming his fist down on a nearby table, the action caused Mary to flinch.

"She's with Henry," the governess protested weakly, which made Matthew glare at her. "He's a policeman. I expected she would be safe with him."

Matthew lifted his eyes to the Heavens and let out a frustrated sigh. "Clara's my daughter, Mary. If any harm comes to her, I'll..."

"You'll what?" she frowned, her voice shaking slightly as she struggled to get a foothold in the conversation.

"I'll not be very pleased, put it that way," he said finally.

"You won't be very pleased," she repeated, narrowing her eyes. "Do you expect me to be scared?"

Now it was his turn to frown.

"I've supported you, entirely," she noted, her voice sharpening. "I didn't have to, you know. I owe you nothing. I could have easily turned Clara away from you, regardless of Madeline's wishes. I've spent more time with Clara than you have, and I dare say I know her a hell of a lot more than you do. Your name and voice may strike fear into the hearts of foolish men around here, but I couldn't care less whether you are pleased with the way I do my job or not!"

Matthew blinked in shock, staring at her as though she had two heads.

"I trust Henry," she said somewhat less angrily, trying to get them back to the way they normally were with each other. "Don't you? I thought he was your friend."

Matthew pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled. "He is. I do. I just…just promise me you will call me as soon as she's home."

Mary nodded. "Of course I will. It's my job."

They reached an uneasy truce, neither one willing to admit the other was in the wrong. After several moments, the tension between them melted away as they each decided that yes, Clara was in good hands.

"How are you, Mary?" he asked, chuckling at how casual the question sounded. "I haven't been able to talk to you properly, since our meetings have been so brief."

Mary gave him a Mona Lisa smile, still wary of the quick change in his attitude. "I've been well, thank you. Focusing mostly on Master Raymond and Miss Clara; but being on my own tonight is a rarity I would like to enjoy."

The innocent comment made Matthew smirk and think of decidedly wicked ideas. "Is that why you came to see me? You're looking for some enjoyment, are you?"

Mary felt a blush rise up her neck and to her cheeks; suddenly her throat felt very dry and she felt hot and constricted by her blouse and skirt. _Is he playing with me? _she wondered. That wouldn't do. No man caused her to feel this way. She was the one who made men quiver, not the other way around.

"That depends on what kind of offer I receive," she managed, though her voice and eyes betrayed her. She wasn't nearly as in control as she was during their first meeting.

He took a step towards her. His mind was racing, all the reasons why he shouldn't be thinking what he was thinking, wanting what he was wanting, blaring loudly, then fading away just as quickly.

"Are you interested in what I have to offer?" he asked, his blue eyes trying to show all the confidence he didn't actually feel.

"What are you offering me, exactly?" she asked, unable to stop him from seeing her swallow in anticipation. He was so close now, within her reach.

"What is it you want?" he asked, his voice low and deep. His eyes fell to her lips and lingered there before coming back up to her eyes. _He did that on purpose_, she thought, and she chastised herself for doing the same thing back to him.

"You don't want to go home, otherwise you would have left by now," he said, pressing his advantage. She almost felt her knees weakening as he came even closer to her. "You don't want to go find someone else, otherwise you wouldn't have even come over."

She took a step back, giving up ground to him as he slowly moved forward. She gasped in surprise as she hit the edge of the table that he had just pounded his fist on to mere moments ago.

"You know, it's rather dangerous for you to be here," he said, placing his hand on the table next to her and leaning forward, his lips just a breath away from her cheek.

"Charles would be angry if he knew I was here," she whispered shakily.

"Blake would be angry if he knew you were here, yes," he agreed, turning so that his lips were next to her ear. "And he would be absolutely livid if he knew you were here with me."

She gulped audibly and reached back to grab the table to steady herself.

"I don't know why you're with him," he said, his voice losing some of its composure. "I don't know what you see in him, and I don't know what you expect from him, but I know him. I know what he wants from you."

"And what is that, pray?" she asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

"He wants you to serve him, just like all of his other girls," he said. "He just wants to use you, turn you into his…turn you into his whore."

She grit her teeth and willed herself not to react to his words, as crass and disgusting as they were.

"I know that sounds disrespectful, but that's the point. Charles Blake doesn't respect you. He doesn't respect anyone," he growled.

"And you do?" she asked, turning to look at him, locking her eyes on his to stop herself from thinking about their lips being so close to each other. "How do I know you don't want to use me for the same purpose? How do I know that I'm not just a pawn in whatever stupid and dangerous game that you and Charles are playing at?"

"If that's what you truly believe, then you can go," he said, stepping back and to the side to give her a clear path to the door. She felt cold all of a sudden without his presence practically on top of her as he was before. "I would never force you to do anything, Mary. Anything that happens between us, or that doesn't happen, will be because you wanted it so."

"And if I want to stay?" she challenged. "That could be dangerous for you too, you know?"

"It could be, yes," he said, looking at her intently. "But I've risked my life for a lot of stupid and foolish reasons before."

"Are you saying I'm another stupid and foolish risk?" she demanded, arching her eyebrow at him.

He stepped in closer.

She blinked in surprise.

His hand came up her front, his fingers settling under her chin. For a second she was afraid he might throttle her, but his touch was light and gentle as he moved in.

"You, Miss Crawley," he said. "Are someone worth risking everything for."

Her pulse jumped.

"Do you want to stay?" he asked, his mouth so close she could almost taste his voice on her tongue. "I'm offering. I want you to stay."

Through her lust and fear she somehow found enough courage to look directly into his eyes.

"I want you," she replied.

His lips were on hers before she even finished her reply, but then again her words weren't important. He was right. She had already made her choice just by coming here to see him. His hands moved down to hold her hips and pull her towards him. Her hands went up his chest and across his shoulders, finally settling in his hair as she opened her mouth and let his tongue past her lips. He kissed her hard, so hard that she arched her back against him and tilted her head, giving him full access and permission to do whatever he wanted. Warnings fired in her head, but she ignored them, and eventually quieted them completely. He scooped her up off the floor and she vaguely recalled the direction of the bedroom as he carried her away. There would be consequences for them later if this went too far, but as she kissed him back she paid no attention to the risks, the danger, or the prospect of Charles' fury if he was to find out. Tonight was about her, what she wanted, and feeling as though her life was hers again, if only for a night.

* * *

**Holiday Home of the Chicago Outfit, Long Island, New York. 4.05pm**

Clara gasped in wonder as the car approached a large mansion; she turned to Henry with a smile, so wide, that her face might burst. "Is that where Papa's friend lives? It's pretty."

Henry chuckled and stroked her hair as the car came to a halt. Alfred let them out and Clara instantly latched onto Henry, although not without thanking Alfred first; which made the nervous Sergeant blush a little.

Henry greeted an elderly man once they came inside the house. Clara did the same in the hope she was acting politely. The elderly man told them to wait in the drawing room, which Clara silently observed was on the left from the front door.

"What's the name of Papa's friend?" Clara asked, in that sweet tone of hers. The tone that made Henry internally wince and feel like a dagger to the heart, he didn't want to use her, but children could be useful with certain people, little girls especially.

Henry sat down on a divan, took a deep breath, took Clara's hands and asked her to look him in the eyes. "Clara. Papa's friend sometimes isn't a very nice man, but don't worry, I won't let him hurt you."

"You promise?" Clara asked, now a bit afraid as to why she was here.

"I promise" Henry smiled, stroking along her cheek with his forefinger, a technique he used to soothe his own children.

"What's the name of Papa's friend?" Clara asked again, hoping that she would get an answer this time.

Henry chuckled and smiled. "His name is-"

There was a sharp knock on the door that startled both the Lieutenant and the little girl jump, the door opened to the elderly man.

"Mr Ricca will see you now, Sir and little ma'am." He said, gently bowing to Clara, which made her giggle.

"Now you know his name" Henry whispered in Clara's ear as they went through.

"Ah, Henry. So delightful to see you again"

Clara hid behind Henry slightly, a little intimidated by the man in front of her. The man didn't sound like people she'd seen around town or the people like she met on holiday in New Jersey. He sounded a little like her Uncle, who lived in a place called Chicago.

The tall man noticed Clara. "And I see you've brought a friend, Henry." The man bent down to Clara's level. "Hello there sweetheart, what's your name?"

Henry pulled Clara out in front of him, out of hiding. "My name's Clara, Sir," she said softly.

"Well, it's certainly nice to meet you, Clara." He held out his hand and Clara gently shook it. "Why don't you come and sit down?" the man gestured for them to sit down opposite him.

"Why doesn't Clara come and sit beside me?" The man patted the spot beside him on the divan. Clara looked at Henry expectantly, Henry nodded and whispered in her ear. "He won't harm you. I promise."

With Henry's reassurance, Clara padded towards the other divan and sat down slowly next to the man.

"You're my Papa's friend." She said innocently, fiddling with a button on her coat. "At least that's what Mister Policeman said."

The man chuckled. "And who's your Papa, darling?"

Clara looked at Henry, she was still finding the pronunciation of her Papa's name hard to stomach, no matter how hard she tried or was taught by Miss Crawley.

"She's Matthew Crawley's girl, Paul. The Matthew Crawley that serves as a wingman and lawyer for Charlie Carson." Henry said, flatly.

Paul gasped. "Oh you are a sweetie are you?"

"Don't avoid it, Paul. Matthew works for you, doesn't he?" Henry said, his eyes narrowing.

But Paul remained focused on Clara, trying to block out Henry's question.

"Excuse me, Sir?" Clara said, "Why won't you answer Mister Policeman's question?"

Paul chuckled nervously. Clara raised her little eyebrow. The remark made Henry laugh quietly to himself. She was so much like her Papa.

"Does my Papa work for you, Sir?" Clara asked. "If he does, I think that's swell. He should have a job to do, to keep him busy."

Paul began to tear up, the little girl sat beside him was so innocent. How could she be the daughter of the man he hired to cause mayhem and murder? It just didn't seem possible. It just didn't seem right.

"My Papa has a job, he tells me that in his letters, but he never mentioned you," Clara carried on. "He also tells me about my Mama, what she was like and all, since she's not around anymore." She glanced up at Paul, who was struggling to hold back the tears. "He tells me that my Mama was very pretty, and that I'm pretty like she was."

Henry shook his head. "Come along, Clara. Time to go home."

Clara nodded and said goodbye to the crying man, taking Henry's hand as they left.

No one shared the revelation that a 4 year old girl could reduce the boss of the Chicago Outfit to tears.

She didn't realize it, or understand it at the time, but later on, Clara Blake would be quite proud that she made a gangster cry.

* * *

_Historical Note- _

_Paul Ricca, also known as 'The Waiter' (1897-1972) was a Chicago mobster and leader of the 'Chicago Outfit' for 40 years._


	13. Secrets and Lies

_This is the chapter where I owe Apollo big time. Seriously. Thankyou, my dear._

_Enjoy! _

_P. X_

* * *

**Richmond Town Hotel, Staten Island, New York. 5.15pm**

Matthew lowered Mary onto the bed and followed after her, continuing to busy her mouth with ardent kisses. She moaned into his mouth as her back came into contact with the mattress, her hands moving up his back, holding him close, signalling her desire, and consent. He felt the familiar surge of power and delight as he hovered over her, his lips moving to her neck, his hands trailing down to take hold of her skirt, pulling it up and baring her thighs, making her gasp.

"Oh God," she breathed. "Please."

Matthew grinned, his blood racing with arousal. He hadn't felt this way with a woman in years – frantic, powerful, devious even. It had been so long, and he'd become so guarded that he'd almost forgotten what lust and the need for excitement felt like. There were a few women, in the 18 months since Madeline's death, but no one stable enough for him to trust, let alone even think of settling down with. He knew so little about Mary, and she even less about him, and yet he knew he didn't want just a dirty fuck and nothing more. She was already a part of his life; she had known Madeline, was Clara's caregiver, and yet he found himself fantasizing about wanting more. As she lay before him now, writhing under his touch, he wanted to give, and take, and show her a side of him that only one other woman had ever seen.

"Again," he growled, kissing her collarbone and nuzzling against her breast through the silk of her blouse.

She responded immediately, which only made him want her even more.

"Please," she said tightly, the need in her voice sending a jolt between his legs. God, he wanted to hear that voice calling his name, feel her long legs wrapped around him as he took her hard.

His fingers found the waistband of her knickers, and she arched her back and lifted her hips to assist him.

There was a knock at the door.

"Don't answer it," Mary whispered, her eyes finding his, pleading him to keep the outside world away for a while longer.

The interloper knocked again, this time a little more firmly.

Matthew sighed in resignation, his head dropping to her stomach as he took deep breaths and tried to calm himself. Ignoring someone at his door was a dangerous thing, even if he did have every reason to do so at the moment.

"I'm sorry. I have to see who it is," he said quickly, rising off of her. He adjusted his trousers and smiled down at her, proud that he had made her so dishevelled.

"You should probably tidy yourself a bit, just in case I can't get rid of them," he said, leaning down and kissing her.

Walking out to the living room and over to the small foyer, he checked his hair in the mirror before taking a deep breath and opening the door just a crack. He blinked when he saw who was on the other side.

"Henry, you're back already?" Matthew exclaimed.

The Lieutenant's answer was cut short.

"Papa!" Clara exclaimed, nudging her way through the door and throwing herself at him, He smiled and picked her up, carrying her into the living room. Henry followed, shutting the door behind him.

"Have you had a good day with Henry?" Matthew asked gently to Clara, who was happily nestled in the crook of her father's neck. Clara nodded.

"Where did you take her?" Matthew asked cautiously, rocking his daughter back and forth in hopes that she was tired and would nod off shortly.

Henry cleared his throat. "To see Paul. Paul Ricca."

Matthew's shocked glare told Henry everything he thought of that idea.

* * *

**Home of Isobel Crawley Clarkson, Pittsfield, Massachusetts. 5.05pm**

"You never did tell me what happened when you took Atticus to the police. It's been a month and you've still not said a single word," Isobel asked, pouring tea for Violet and herself.

Violet sighed. She'd resigned herself to stay in Massachusetts until all this ghastly business with Matthew and Atticus and Lord knew what else was over. There was no point in flying backwards and forwards between here and Berlin with fires starting up all around them.

"Well, safe to say that your son isn't quite the saint he's made himself out to be." Violet said matter-of-factly, taking the cup from Isobel.

Isobel scoffed as she sat down opposite her friend. "I already knew that. He's my son. All mothers like to think that their children are perfect, but I know that Matthew has made his fair share of mistakes."

"Does getting involved with the Chicago Outfit count as mistake?" Violet said, raising her eyebrow, waiting for a reaction.

"Yes," she said. "One that I tried to talk him out of, but it was too late."

Violet was dumbstruck. "So you knew?"

Isobel shrugged and placed her cup down. "Of course I knew. It all happened a few months ago, if I recall, and rather quickly. He summoned me to Boston in the early hours of the morning looking for advice. As it turned out, I wasn't the only person he'd called."

"Charlie?" Violet said.

Isobel nodded and continued. "Charlie indeed. Matthew said that Paul Ricca had personally hired him to take out a rival of some sort and he didn't know what to do. He wasn't bothered about the job, it was what he did. He said that his loyalty was to Charlie was preventing him from accepting right away, that he felt like he was betraying Charlie if he went ahead."

"So obviously he went through with it?" Violet said.

"Well yes, otherwise we wouldn't be having this conversation. None of us thought it was overly serious, just Ricca needing an outside man for the job. Charlie was almost indifferent to it, didn't think it concerned him at all. Matthew completed the job in Chicago and was back in Boston a few weeks later. But now it seems that Paul Ricca isn't done with Matthew yet, so the job wasn't a one-off as originally thought."

Violet made to interrupt but Isobel stopped her. "I don't know anything more than that, but obviously whatever Matthew did, he angered the wrong people and has gotten himself into a battle of some kind that has ensnared Atticus, and now Henry as well." Violet sighed in resignation, feeling the odd sensation of defeat. She set her questions aside and elected to change the subject. "Did anyone ever tell you why I left for Berlin after Patrick died?"

"You left without word in the middle of night 8 years ago, so no. No one has ever really told me, because I honestly, I don't think you told anyone" Isobel said.

Violet sat up straighter. "After Patrick died, I felt vulnerable. More afraid that people were going to come after me. I had to leave America altogether, sever all ties with my children and grandchildren, which as you can imagine, wasn't an easy thing to do. It seemed to me that if I disappeared, they wouldn't be considered pawns or threats to be used against me. I headed for Europe. I couldn't go to England or France. Too many relatives and acquaintances there. I wanted to go somewhere where no one knew me, hence- Berlin."

Isobel smiled in understanding.

"And now here I am again," Violet sighed, shaking her head. "When they called me, I couldn't just stay away. Perhaps I ought to have, but if someone is after my family, then I need to be here."

Isobel sipped her tea solemnly. "Well thank you. I'm glad that you feel you can still confide in me after all this time."

"Confide in you about what?" Violet said, without emotion. "I'm just making conversation."

Isobel laughed quietly to herself.

_Typical Violet._

* * *

**Staten Island, New York. 5.35pm**

It took almost twenty minutes for Clara to fall asleep. Matthew rocked her back and forth and hummed some tune that was stuck in his head to soothe her. When her eyes finally closed, he kept rocking her for another five minutes before gently setting her on the divan and tucking a blanket across her. He didn't acknowledge Henry until Clara was sleeping comfortably.

"Paul Ricca!" he said quietly, directing Henry to the far side of the room. "My God, Henry. Do you realise how dangerous that was!? Give me one reason why I shouldn't beat the living hell out of you right now! "

Henry held up his hands. "Woah, Matthew. Calm down. Paul didn't harm Clara. In fact, he was rather accommodating to us both. He didn't really say much, but I needed her there to take him by surprise and gauge his reaction, and it all came off beautifully, I have to say. I found out everything I needed from his response to her."

"Henry, don't you dare use my daughter like that ever again," Matthew sneered. "You're my friend, which is the only reason you're still alive. Don't you think I know what you're playing at? Clara won't be a witness, or a tool for you in whatever operation you've got going on. I will not allow it. Are we clear?"

"Matthew, we'll never…" Henry protested.

"Matthew? Henry," Mary said, coming into the living room and staring at the two men.

Henry and Mary eyed each other warily, before Mary's eyes fell on Clara's peacefully sleeping form on the divan. She walked past Matthew and Henry and went over and scooped Clara up in her arms. The child mumbled and squirmed a bit, but kept her eyes closed.

"Clara, darling, we're going to go home now," Mary said to the child, cradling her in her arms before taking her over and handing her to Matthew. "I promise to call when we get home." Mary said, putting on her coat quickly and buttoning it up before taking Clara back from Matthew.

Matthew nodded silently, kissing the top of Clara's head before watching his daughter and Mary disappear out of the door.

"Jesus, Matthew, are you certifiably insane?!" Henry demanded angrily. "Fucking one of Charles' Blake's women?"

"She's not his woman, not like that," Matthew retorted. "And we never got that far, thanks to you."

"A lucky thing that I came back when I did then," Henry declared.

Matthew waved his hand and turned away, going over to the bar and pouring both of them a drink.

"Matthew?" Henry asked suspiciously. "You do agree that Miss Crawley is off limits, don't you? Need I remind you of what happened to Madeline?"

Matthew winced, but didn't reply until after he sipped his drink. "Her name is Mary."

"Oh Jesus," Henry said, shaking his head. "You've got a thing for her? Matthew…"

"Shut up," Matthew ordered. "I don't want to hear it, Henry. I stayed away. I left her alone and she died. I've been living half a life for years now and what has it gotten me? A daughter who barely knows me and Charles Blake still has it in for me. No. I live on my terms now, and if Mary is willing to take a chance on me, then, well…"

Henry ran a hand through his hair. "Matthew," he said tiredly. "Look, we can talk about this later. I need you to come with me."

"Where? Why?" Matthew asked, looking at him suspiciously.

"We're taking a drive, to your mother's," Henry said.

Matthew blinked. "Does that mean…"

"Yes," Henry said. "She's here and she wants to talk to you, quite desperately I might add."

Matthew frowned. "Fine, let me just get some things together."

Henry nodded and waited for Matthew to go into the bedroom and change clothes. When he emerged, Henry moved to the door.

"Henry, if we're going to be stuck in a car for five hours, I expect you to finally tell me how Madeline died. You said you would. It seemed you were about to before we found Atticus, and still you haven't."

Henry rolled his eyes. "I can't tell you that, Matthew. Not yet."

"We'll see," Matthew replied, waving for Henry to go out first.


	14. Brave new world

_A/N: *opens the door* surprise! im home! so sorry that this has taken awhile. big hugs to apollo as usual, seriously dont understand how my writing is dealt with to be honest. im writing another story...and im open to sugesstions and ideas :) Enjoy!_

_P. x_

* * *

**Home of Matthew Crawley, Boston, Massachusetts. Mid February 1935. 9.30am**

Next to the headline that Richard Hauptmann was sentenced to death by the electric chair, was a small article to the left reporting about a sudden death that had occurred the day before.

_Judge Robert Crawley, Chief Justice of the Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court, was found dead at his home in the early hours of yesterday morning (February 12__th__); exactly a year to the day since the death of his wife, Cora. Police in Cambridge are treating the death as suspicious and are appealing for any witnesses…_

Matthew placed the newspaper down slowly and sighed. He got up and scratched his forehead, going over to the window and staring blankly onto the street outside. He reached into his inside pocket for his cigarettes, then cursed that he didn't have any. Since allowing Clara into his life, he'd tried to quit the habit, with varying degrees of failure. This was another one of those days where he had sworn off smoking yet again.

He turned away from the window and paced around the room, his thoughts on his daughter, and the woman who was currently acting as her governess. He didn't think Mary was very close to her father, but the man was still her father, and she would likely be mourning in some fashion. More importantly though, the suspicious circumstances of the Judge's death raised even more concerns. No one moved against a judge unless they had very good reason to do so. It was surely a professional kill, and since Matthew hadn't done it, that reduced the list of possible murderers to a miniscule number.

He closed his eyes and thought back to that night, the night at the bar where he saw the Judge sitting with Charles Blake. The night when he met Mary for the first time. He had shown up wanting to shadow Blake a bit, then followed Mary to that small room, on the pretence of grilling her for information, then forgetting her. The past months had all been a whirlwind, with more storms to come, it seemed, and yet Mary wasn't trouble to him. She was one of the few good things he had going right now.

He frowned as a knock on the door stirred him from his thoughts. He went to the door and glanced through the peephole, blinking in surprise at what he saw.

"Mary!" he exclaimed, opening the door to let her in. He stared at her in shock as she walked past him and into the room. "What are you doing here?" he asked, closing the door and locking it.

"And hello to you, too," she replied, turning to face him and arching her eyebrow playfully. "You take me to your bed and now afterwards this is the kind of greeting I get?"

"Well, Henry did interrupt us, so I suppose I should be more polite to you," he replied. He shook his head and became more serious. "Mary, you should really be with your family."

She rolled her eyes and scoffed. "What family? My Mother died a year ago, my sisters won't speak to me; my Grandmother is just about the only person I have left now."

"Then go be with your Grandmother," he suggested.

"Have you met my Grandmother, Matthew?" she asked.

"Several times," he confirmed. "She's actually with my Mother as we speak. Henry and I went to see them to discuss all that's been going on."

"Small world," she said, shrugging her shoulders. "Well, my Grandmother won't be mourning. She disowned my Father some years ago when he became involved with Charles Blake."

"But she trusts you more than she did your Father, apparently, if you're still close," he noted.

Mary cleared her throat. "Yes, she does. She taught me that we Crawley women need to stick together, though not all of us have heeded that lesson."

He nodded, relaxing slightly and coming towards her.

"My condolences, Mary, truly," he said, taking her in his arms and kissing her gently.

"Thank you," she said, nodding her head. "Please tell me you have some idea of what's going on. I knew that my Father was up to…many extracurricular activities…but to have someone kill him…"

"That's not confirmed, yet," he said.

She glared at him.

He sighed. "All right. I do have some idea, and I think so do you, you just don't want to believe it."

She stepped out of his hold and turned away, shaking her head and rubbing her arms nervously.

"Why would Charles want my Father dead?" she asked quietly, her back to him. "They were allies, weren't they?"

"Perhaps your father was squeezing Charles, for money, favours, what have you," he suggested, approaching her slowly. "He was behind the abduction of Atticus, which means he was in league with Richard Carlisle, who is now dead. The other Families know this. They also know that Atticus was rescued by Henry, which means they all assume that he gave up the names of Charles' men and contacts to the authorities. Doing business with Charles right now is messy and complicated, and no one likes messy and complicated. So, either your father did something to anger him, or Charles is acting out, trying to show he still has power and isn't afraid to use it. Regardless, he's becoming even more dangerous than I originally suspected."

She turned around to look at him, her eyes narrow, her lips pursed.

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

He frowned and looked away for a moment.

"I need to get Clara out of there, away from him," he said. "I can't do anything until that's done."

"If you remove her, he'll know, and he'll hold me responsible," she said.

"Yes, which is why I need to get you away from him too," he said, looking at her seriously.

She frowned at him. "What are you saying?" she demanded.

"Mary, life with me is…complicated…and messy…and dangerous. I can't make you any promises, but I…I want you with me," he said.

"Goodness, Matthew," she said, looking at him as though he had two heads. "Is this a proposal?"

He smiled and took her hand in his.

"I know better than to try and tie you down," he said warmly. "First, I want you and Clara safe. Then, once I've dealt with Charles, we can take our time, get to know each other, see if this is right, if it's what you want."

She looked down demurely, then smiled cautiously at him.

"Besides, I'm in the market for an etiquette tutor, you know," he said, smirking as he pulled her close.

She laughed and sat down on the sofa with him.

* * *

**An abandoned wearhouse, South Lawndale, Chicago, Illinois. Early November 1934**

"Oh Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy," Matthew taunted in a singsong voice as he walked around the young man, who was hung upside down, his feet bound to a rope tied to the ceiling. "My, my, what trouble have we got ourselves into now?"

Jimmy grunted, the blood rushing to ears was becoming unbearable. "Please let me down! I'll tell you anything you want to know!"

Matthew whistled and tutted, clenching the bloodied knuckle duster into his palm. "You know I can't do that Jimmy. You see, just by appearing on Chicago soil made you a dead man, but when they told me what you were looking for- well. Frankly, I'm amazed that they kept you alive while I was travelling here"

"Please, Mr Crawley, Sir!" Jimmy begged. "Blake doesn't have to know a thing."

Matthew laughed bitterly, pushing Jimmy away from him, making the young man scream in pain; he caught him and punched Blake's henchman in the stomach twice, making him cough and groan.

"Tell me why you came to Chicago Jimmy? Were you sent to follow me?" Matthew said, taking off the knuckle duster and placing it on a nearby table before standing in front of Jimmy once more.

"Yes!" Jimmy shouted desperately. "Blake sent me, he'd heard through the grapevine that you were doing work for The Outfit."

"So he sent you to find me? And why would Charles Blake care what I was up to? Unless, he was hoping that you would catch me off guard and kill me?" Matthew said, factly as Jimmy whimpered. "Am I right?"

"Yes!" Jimmy shouted.

"Then tell me this, considering you're so clever," Matthew said sarcastically. "You could have killed me back in Boston, you've had so many chances. Why now?"

Jimmy grunted. "Look Blake may not be the brightest spark in the box but he certainly knows when something isn't right."

Matthew scratched his chin. "Is this relevant Jimmy? Because I'm getting bored."

Jimmy felt sick. "A couple of years ago, Blake found a letter. He didn't seem happy when he'd read it, it was something to do with his late wife and the middle child."

Matthew's ears perked at the mention of Madeline and the child, their child. He suddenly became intrigued. "Go on."

Jimmy coughed. "He…he went nuts. When I arrived at the house the next morning, he was raving and screaming, saying how he was going to kill you, how he was going to teach you not to fuck with him."

Matthew's mind spun. He thought he was protecting Clara by leaving her with Blake, letting her stay there under Mary's care. As long as Charles assumed she was his, he wouldn't do anything to her. This was the reason behind why he hadn't seen so much of her; why Mary was so cautious about where and when he met Clara. Charles knew.

"Can you let me down now?" Jimmy protested weakly, swinging to try and free himself.

Matthew tapped his chin. "One more thing. Madeline. Were you there? When she died?"

"No!" Jimmy shouted with laboured breathing.

Matthew pulled a flick knife out from his pocket and held it at Jimmy's throat. "Wrong answer." He growled.

Jimmy sobbed. "I was there! I was there, okay!"

Matthew growled, reaching up to cut the rope around Jimmy's feet. The young man met the ground with a thud, Matthew turned away to the nearby table, placing the knife next to his knuckle duster and pulled on some leather gloves.

"What happened Jimmy?" He said, picking up a revolver from the table, before walking over to Jimmy and standing over him.

"I don't know." The young man whimpered, now more terrified with a gun pointed at his forehead.

"Last chance," Matthew said, cocking the hammer of the gun.

"It was Blake! I don't know how, but it was him!" Jimmy babbled.

Matthew's eyes bulged. He had suspected it, but now to hear it said out loud…

"Jimmy," Matthew said coldly. "Don't let me see you again, and don't even think of showing your face in Boston."

Matthew slammed the gun into the man's temple, knocking him out cold.

* * *

**Home of Matthew Crawley, Boston, Massachusetts. Mid February 1935. Noon**

"Matthew," Mary whispered, shaking him gently.

He blinked several times and opened his eyes, focusing on her concerned face, then glancing around, realizing they were lying together on the couch.

"Mary," he mumbled.

"We nodded off," she said, sitting up and looking at him carefully. "I heard you talking in your sleep and you woke me up."

"I'm sorry," he said, sitting up and closing his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I sometimes have…dreams."

"Nightmares?" she asked, putting her hand on his knee.

He shook his head and smiled at her.

"No, just not very pleasant ones," he said. "But, I plan on having much better ones soon."

He leaned over and kissed her softly.


	15. Like A Pheonix

_15\. Like a pheonix _

**Home of Tom Branson, Dublin, Ireland. Late February 1935. **

By nature, Tom Branson didn't run away from anything- even when his life was on the line. But this time, it was different. The night after Anthony was killed, he jumped on the next boat back to Ireland. He felt awful for leaving Matthew in his hour of need, without a phone call or letter, but the urge to flee and save himself was just too strong. This was way over his head, maybe way over all of their heads.

Tom cleared his throat as he pressed the receiver of the phone to his ear, listening intently to the crackling of the line, silently hoping that someone on the other end would pick up. Maybe he hadn't stayed to fight, but he could still do something.

_"Hello, Charlie Carson speaking"_ the clearly annoyed voice boomed on the other end, making Tom jump slightly.

He cleared his throat and took a deep breath. "Charlie, its Tom. Tom Branson"

_"Tom! What the bloody hell are you doing calling me at this ungodly hour?!"_ Charlie demanded.

Tom ran a hand through his hair, he hadn't thought of the time difference between them. "Charlie, I need you to listen to me. I need you to tell Matthew that he hasn't got long left-"

_"Long left?"_ Charlie interrupted quickly. _"What on earth do you mean?"_

Tom sighed. "The net, Charlie. Oh Christ, Charlie. First Patrick Crawley, then Madeline Blake, Anthony Gillingham, Atticus Aldridge and now Robert Crawley- don't you see Charlie?! If Matthew doesn't watch his back, then his own Mother could be next- or worse, his daughter!"

_Charlie shut his eyes and sighed quietly, he put the phone against his shoulder and_ _called Thomas to his side_. _Charlie then put the phone back up to his ear and cleared his throat._

_"Tom?"_

"Yes?"

_"As of Midnight on the 27__th__ of February, a week tonight, I will send my men to cause mass destruction to Blake and his cowards, wherever they may be. If the net is going to come down on one of our own, then by God, we are going make sure we get the upper hand," Charlie said with conviction. "Goodnight Tom. God speed"_

With that, Tom placed the phone down on the holder, put his head in his hands and began to weep. He was a fool to think he would be safe over here. Obviously Blake knew he was Irish, just as he knew about his connection to Matthew and the others. If Charlie was going to unleash Hell on everyone, so be it, but if they were caught out somehow, if their plans didn't work, Charles Blake would stop at nothing to hunt down each and every person that Matthew had ever come into contact with.

"Oh Matthew, I'm so sorry" he cried bitterly, tears staining the handwritten note that he'd penned just mere moments ago. He sucked in a breath before opening his desk drawer, taking out his grandfather's pistol, retreating to his bedroom and shutting the door.

* * *

**Home of Isobel Crawley Clarkson, Pittsfield, Massachusetts. Late February 1935.**

Even though he lived mainly in Boston, Matthew always considered Pittsfield to be home. He couldn't remember what it was like to have a peaceful night's sleep-since leaving- until now. When his Mother had telephoned the day after Robert Crawley's death, asking if he could come and stay with her to help her understand what was _really _going on, he was reluctant, but eventually agreed, and now he was glad to be back, despite the circumstances.

"So I sat with Violet quite recently and she gave me no insight as to what is going on" Isobel said over breakfast. "I was hoping you would."

"Mother" Matthew pleaded. "I don't want you to get caught up in this even more than you already are"

"Bit too late for that," Isobel said flatly. "Now, do explain to your dear Mother how you are going to resolve this almighty mess you have gotten yourself into."

Matthew sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "When Patrick Crawley was murdered 8 years ago, everyone thought it was a cut and dried job. Well, no, it wasn't. Then, 2 years later, I met Madeline- everything sort of fell into place. Blake was bragging about a secret he had- someone he'd killed."

"Patrick?" Isobel asked.

Matthew nodded. "Yes. When Madeline told me she was with child, I urged her immediately to leave Blake and get out. But she wouldn't. She said that if she could have an affair with me right under Blake's nose, then we could also raise a child together. No questions asked. In the end, I think she was too scared to leave him, too afraid that there was nowhere she could go that he couldn't follow, and she thought the safest place for her and the baby was to stay with him."

"But of course, it didn't work out like that," Isobel stated.

"No" Matthew said sadly. "Madeline died when Clara was 3. I asked Anthony to burn all traces that he had been a go-between for me and Madeline. I've kept only 3 letters from her- to give to Clara when she's old enough to maybe understand."

Isobel watched as her son grew wearier as he went on about telling the whole story. Not surprisingly, she asked, so he told her. She couldn't bear to see her darling boy, her only child, in pain because of one stupid mistake. Maybe he had loved Madeline. Maybe he would have had a bright future with her and their child, but none of that was possible. By carrying on with her, he was sealing all of their fates, and though it was terribly foolish, she couldn't hate him for it, not when she saw him collapsing before her. She placed a hand on top of his, as tears began to roll down his cheeks.

"Enough," she said firmly. "No more"

Matthew nodded.

"Take a little bit of advice from your Mother. To stop this once and for all, confront him. If you want to start again, confront him. You want your daughter, confront him. Do you understand?" Her son nodded and she continued. "Me, Charlie and Violet, no matter how hard we fight, we cannot protect you from this for much longer. You need to finish this once and for all."

"Oh Mother!" Matthew wept. "If only you knew how sorry I am"

Isobel nodded and rubbed a thumb over the back of his hand.

She was about to reach over to embrace him, when their quiet reunion was shattered by the phone ringing.

* * *

**Home of Tom Branson, Dublin, Ireland. Late February 1935.**

When Daisy Robinson heard a loud thud from the flat opposite her, she wondered what had Tom Branson been getting up to. She opened her front door and quietly padded out onto the landing, and knocked gently on her neighbour's door. When he didn't answer, she gently pushed on the door to find it was open.

"Tom?" She called out.

No answer.

Daisy went about each room, calling out his name, but finding that there was no answer. She was about to leave to attend to her children's dinner before noticing that something wasn't quite right. There was an atmosphere that she didn't like – a tension that wasn't usually there. Frowning, she walked towards the bedroom and turned the doorknob.

"Tom?" she called, ducking her head in the open doorway.

She screamed.

* * *

**Home of Isobel Crawley Clarkson, Pittsfield, Massachusetts. Late February 1935.**

Isobel stood in shock and slowly put the phone down on the receiver. She turned to John Bates and told him to find Henry Talbot and his sergeant with quick effect. After Isobel had composed herself, she walked back into the kitchen and reclaimed her seat next to her son.

Matthew quickly caught on to the change in his mother's demeanour. "Mother, what is it?"

Tears began to well in Isobel's eyes as she took her son's hand. "Oh my darling boy, it's Tom"

Matthew paled. "No. Oh God, no"

"Thomas said that his neighbour found him, that he'd killed himself," Isobel said shakily, tears falling down her face.

The death toll had risen to 5, for Matthew this was 5 people too many.

Perhaps his Mother was right, maybe it was time to finish this war once and for all.

The end was approaching – either Charles Blake's, or his.


	16. Aftermath

_N/A: Its been awhile- I apologise. Erm, we are sort of nearing the end...and I'm pipling another story, if its going to actually happen- I have no idea. But ideas are welcome. I might even do a little novella for this._

_Love,_

_P. x_

_p.s. Thanks to Apollo for this- I have no idea how my writing is edited without sighing and eyerolling._

* * *

_16\. Aftermath_

**Charlie and Charlie's Bar, New York City, New York. 23****rd**** February 1935. 9.45pm**

The day after he heard about the suicide of Tom Branson, Charlie Carson brought forward the ambush on Charles Blake and his men by 4 days. He deployed his men to certain parts of the country and called upon members of the Families to supply extra help. He felt sad with a heavy heart that Tom Branson wasn't around to see it. He felt worse that the young man didn't have faith to see things through to the end, that his fear over Blake's revenge finding him had driven him to such madness.

Charlie exhaled long and heavily before lighting his pipe and sitting back in his chair. He glanced over to the photograph on his desk of his wife, Elsie, and their children Anna and Andrew. He silently thanked God that they were out of town in Rhode Island and were safely away from the mess.

A soft knock at his office door shook him out of his reverie and Thomas stuck his head round the door gingerly.

"Boss?" He said, clearing his throat as he shut the door behind him.

"Yes Thomas? What is it?" Charlie said, wearily.

Thomas sighed heavily. "We dispatched all the men we had, with help from the other Families. Oh Christ Charlie, I hope this ends soon for all our sakes!"

Charlie stood up and placed a hand on Thomas' shoulder comfortingly. "What happened Thomas?"

Thomas choked. "Oh God. They were waiting for us, it was awful. One by one, they went for us. In all my years of service, I've never seen anything like it-"

"Thomas calm down" Charlie said, guiding his right hand man to a chair.

Thomas took a few heavy deep breaths, as tears rolled down his cheeks. "The sooner that Matthew puts a bullet through Charles Blake's head the better- his smug face was the last thing William saw."

Charlie muttered a curse under his breath. He tried not to let Thomas see that he wasn't in control. If Thomas was the last one left, then he had to stay strong for him.

"I held him in my arms, Charlie" Thomas wept. "He asked me to sing to him, a song that his Mother used to sing to him. Oh God, I couldn't do it! I just kept talking to him, trying to keep him alive and the one thing he wanted me to do- I couldn't fucking do it!"

"Now that's enough of that!" Charlie said firmly. "You go clean yourself up, go home, get some rest and tomorrow we will do what we can with the resources that we have. Alright?"

Thomas nodded weakly, he took a deep breath before standing up and walking towards the door.

"And Charlie?" Thomas said shakily.

"Yes?"

"I loved him, you know. William."

Charlie nodded. "I know. I know."

* * *

**Boston Common, Tremont Street, Massachusetts. Last day of February 1935. Noon**

Henry Talbot sat on a bench watching over the people as they went about their daily business through the common. His mind kept flashing to the moment that he'd heard about the death of William Mason - amongst others - but William's death stuck out in the forefront of his mind.

_Killed almost instantly by Charles Blake_

He shut his eyes and sighed for the poor boy. He didn't deserve his dying moments to be stood in front of a man as ruthless as Charles Blake. Too many people had now died at the hands of one man. For Henry, both personally and professionally, it was getting too much.

He felt someone sit next to him and didn't bother looking up.

"Henry."

"Matthew," he finally opened his eyes and met his friend's concerned look.

"I'm sorry about William," Matthew said earnestly.

"Me too."

A tense silence settled between them, until finally Matthew couldn't take it anymore.

"I'm at my wits end, Henry," he said grimly.

Henry scoffed. "You and me both. But let's remember that you started all of this shit."

Matthew gave his friend an incredulous look. "Fucking hell Henry! I never thought I'd see the day that you'd blame me for the death of Patrick Crawley."

Henry laughed ruefully. "I'm not. Your affiliation with Charlie Carson, the affair with his wife and now we have reason to believe that he knows that Clara isn't his daughter. By God, Matthew if anyone is at the heart of this, it's you."

Matthew nodded sadly. "We got caught up in it all, at the wrong time."

"And what about Beth?" Henry interrupted.

Matthew's eyebrows shot up to the heavens. "I'd forgotten about Beth," his voice full of regret. "She was my first love, Henry, you must remember that. We were going to be married for God's sake. Madeleine never came close, not once."

"But you loved Madeline enough to have a child with her" Henry argued.

Matthew sighed. "No. With Beth it was, I don't know, _different. _With Beth, I wanted to take my time and go slow. But with Madeline, there was a primal instinct, a need for something I knew that I couldn't have. It was fast and reckless."

Henry nodded. He felt awful for bringing this up, reopening old wounds and adding salt to them, but he just had to ask one more question. "Did Charles know about you and Beth?"

Matthew gave him a glare that could wither a flower. "Christ, do you think if Charles Blake knew about me and Beth that I'd be sitting next to you right now?"

Henry nodded. It was the answer he expected.

"Matthew?"

"Yes?"

"Kill the bastard for me. I don't care how you do it, just kill him. Make it slow, long and painful. For everything he's done, for every single person he's killed. The death toll is rising, Matthew and I don't know how much more I can take."

Matthew placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. "I promise you. But I need you to do something for me in return."

"Anything," Henry said with conviction.

Matthew looked him stone cold in the eye. "Get Clara and Mary safe. Clara is his last shred of control and power that he has over me. If she's removed, I can move on him."

Henry nodded, both men shook hands and went their separate ways, unsure if they'd ever see each other again.

* * *

**Charlie and Charlie's Bar, New York City, New York. Early March. 9.20am**

Charlie Carson stood in the doorway to the entrance of his bar, with his coat hanging over his arm. He looked around at the building and sighed. All of his hard work and now, for the sake of his own life, he had to leave it all behind. The Bar came to him as part of his inheritance from his father, as a run down and abandoned building. He opened it up and gave the locals hope during Prohibition. Business didn't fall after the end, in fact it flourished.

He suspected that the drive to Pittsfield was going to be long and hard. Poor Thomas. On the day of his comrade's funeral and he had to endure a 3 and a half hour drive. He would have used a chauffeur, but he no longer had one. Charlie now only had Thomas. All but one of his men had been killed in the ambush on the night of the 23rd. They had taken a fair number of Blake's men with them, but that was hardly a consolation. He almost wanted to give up, but for Thomas' sake he carried on.

"Mr Carson?"

Charlie turned to see a young lad with a box of matches and a large can of petrol. "You must be Alfred."

"At the request of Lieutenant Talbot, I'm here to, erm, close down the bar, as it were" Alfred said, eyeing up the man with concern.

Charlie smiled sadly. "Yes, I know. I heard that Stone's went up about 2 hours ago."

Alfred nodded in confirmation. "Yes, Mr Napier wasn't so impressed. But it had to happen, to say the least."

Charlie smiled and laughed slightly. "Well then, Alfred. Shall I wait for you and you can join us on the ride back to Massachusetts?"

Alfred smiled shyly. "If that's alright? I mean, it won't take five minutes to set the place up."

Charlie nodded and sighed, before taking one last look around the place. He placed a hand on Alfred's shoulder. "Well if that'll be all, I'll be waiting outside in the car."

Charlie Carson walked away with a heavy heart and the sound of petrol splashing around the room.

* * *

**Adelaide House, Southampton, New York. Early March 1935. 11am**

Henry took a deep breath as he approached the front door of Adelaide House. His hands began to visibly shake as he thought of all the things that could possibly go wrong. He slowly lifted his clenched fist to knock at the door and felt a tremor take over. He had been in dangerous situations before in his line of work, put himself in harm's way, but this was different. Charles Blake was a different animal altogether. By getting directly involved now, from this morning forward, he put his life and his family's lives at stake. Now it was all or nothing.

He knocked three times and waited, glancing up and down the street. Thankfully there was no one about, no lookouts or guards. For a man so obsessed with every last detail of his operation, Charles Blake was strangely complacent about other things. Perhaps it was because, in the end, some things didn't actually matter to him.

Henry turned when he could hear the sound of heels clicking against the floor and the door unlocked.

"Lieutenant Talbot."

"Miss Crawley."

"What can I do for you?"

Henry cleared his throat in order to compose himself for what he was about to say. "Miss Crawley, I am here under Matthew's instructions to take you and the young Miss Clara to his Mother's estate in Pittsfield, Massachusetts. He asked me to tell you that you will require two suitcases for yourself and two for Miss Clara. Are we clear, Miss Crawley?"

Mary nodded quickly. "Yes Lieutenant. Give me half an hour and myself and Miss Clara will be with you."

"I'll be in the car" Henry clarified, he turned away as the door shut behind him.

Now all he could do was hope that whatever Matthew had planned, it would work.


	17. The Four Women of Matthew Crawley

_A/N: You may notice that the rating has turned to M. I entered the land of sexy...and reemerged with the help and betaing of Apollo. Merci. _

_Any now we shall continue. _

_Merry Christmas. :) _

_P. x_

* * *

**Home of Isobel Turnbull Crawley and Reginald Crawley, Pittsfield, ****Massachusetts. Early March 1900. 4.24am**

After everything she had learned about being a nurse, nothing at all could prepare Isobel for the moment when she would become a mother. Even though her husband was a doctor, she demanded at the top of her lungs that he remain outside of her room. Bless her darling husband, she could sense his nervous energy even through the wooden door.

But that was 2 hours ago.

Now, wrapped in a soft white blanket, with a mass of blonde hair and intense blue eyes- like his father- lay her baby son. From now on, everything he did would be a complete marvel to her. She would make sure she would always be there to guide him, to help him chose a pathin life and to try to keep him out of trouble.

"Any names?"

Isobel looked up to see Reginald coming into the room and gently shutting the door behind him, careful not to wake his sleeping newborn son. He gingerly sat down next to his wife's feet and rubbed her leg through the blanket.

"Well I've thought of his middle name at least," Isobel said, her eyes remaining on her baby.

"Oh?" said Reginald, his voice laced with intrigue. His wife hadn't given him any ideas on names during her pregnancy, so this was a surprise to him.

"Mmm-hmm" Isobel said absently, her finger stroking over her son's wispy hair. "Reginald."

Her husband looked up in wonder and smiled ruefully. "Well in that case, I'd like to be the one to give him his name"

"Oh?" She said with a smile on her face, mimicking her husband's earlier remark.

Reginald chuckled as he brushed a finger over his moustache. "Now, I know you are going to moan because you think it's biblical- _but-"_

Isobel looked up at his suddenly. "Oh no, Reg! Not Peter!"

Reginald smiled. "No, my darling Izzy. But Matthew."

"Matthew," Isobel thought aloud. "Matthew Reginald Crawley. It has a nice ring to it, I suppose."

"Gift from God," Reginald said proudly. He looked down at his son. "May I have a hold? You've had him for the last two hours."

Isobel glared at him, but a yawn soon counteracted her annoyance. She gently handed over her little boy into his father's safe and waiting arms before turning over to go to sleep.

Reginald watched over his wife for minute before walking to the window to listen to the spring rain patter down on the glass. He smiled and pressed a kiss to his son's forehead.

"Hello, Matthew. Now you may call me Papa and as long as you do as you're told, you and I are going to get on just fine. Your Mother may be a little fierce at times, but that's only because she loves you. You be good to her because she's going to give her all to you. Do make sure that you treat her with the utmost respect, alright?" The little baby gave a small gurgle. Reginald knew he couldn't truly understand a word he said, but in that moment, he was willing to believe that Matthew heard every word.

* * *

**Harvard Law School, Cambridge, Massachusetts. Late August 1923. Noon**

Matthew sighed as he threw his blazer over their heads to protect them from the downpour. Although the rain and weather were warm, it was still coming down hard enough to get soaked to the bone in minutes. Her laughter took over his senses as her arm slid affectionately round his back. They rushed along the wet sidewalk, finally reaching the shelter of the doorway to the quadrangle.

She laughed shyly as she tried to catch her breath. "Well there goes our lunch plans then."

Matthew nodded and glanced out into the rain. Even breathless, her pleasant voice with the slight accent could still make butterflies flutter in his stomach. Her blue eyes sparkled, and lunch was suddenly the furthest thing from his mind.

"What is this, Matthew?" she asked, fiddling with the diamond ring on her left hand, "This thing between us, what is it?"

He reached out and caught her hand, rubbing her knuckles with his thumb. "This is an engagement," he said, trying to sound confident, though worry crept ever so slightly into his tone. "You are what I want for the rest of my life, as I am to you, surely?"

He looked at her nervously for a second. She had accepted his ring, but it was more in the way of a promise than a commitment. They were both still so young. He was on the verge of a burgeoning career, but for now they were still students, and marriage seemed like such a huge step. Still, he knew this was right, that she was right, though he wondered if she felt the same. Yes, she cared for him, he knew that, but did she have the same ardour, the same passion, the same fearless belief in their future? He sometimes wondered.

She took a determined step forward, surprising him as she grasped the back of his neck and pulled him down to kiss her firmly on the lips. Matthew placed one hand around her trim waistline and another on her jaw line and her hands weaved their way into his hair- both had seemingly forgotten their lunch plans and the rain that had halted them.

Their shyness returned when they came up for air, their hands resting on each other's flushed cheeks as their breaths mingled together.

"Does that convince you?" She whispered, brushing the stubborn forelock of caramel hair away from his eyes. "I know what this is. I just like hearing you say that we're engaged, is all."

Matthew nodded, laughing gently before putting a strand of her red hair that he adored behind her ear. He wasn't sure how he got so lucky. She was beautiful inside and out- her red hair, the way her eyes sparkled when she gave off that laugh that echoed an accent of her homeland. her intellect that sometimes scared him in how sharp it could be; her ability to challenge him with a good counter argument - but the goodness and the kindness that she held was what made him love her the most.

"Matthew?"

"Hm?"

"It's stopped raining" She motioned to the outside from the doorway. Students were starting to emerge and continue going about their daily business. Without warning, Matthew backed her up against the wall and kissed her firmly on the lips. His hands came up and cupped her jawline as her hands grasped his wrists. This was rather bold of them, being so out in the open, but they didn't care. They were young and in love, and surely there was nothing to be ashamed of in that?

"Beth?" He said between kisses.

"Yes?" She breathed, as his lips trailed down her neck and her hand threaded into his hair.

"I love you."

"I love you too, Matthew."

* * *

**Home of Isobel Crawley Clarkson, Pittsfield, Massachusetts. Early March 1935. 6.20pm**

Matthew stood in the doorway of one of his spare bedrooms, watching Mary take in her surroundings.

"Are you comfortable?" He asked, stepping into the room and taking her into his arms.

"It will do, I suppose. I'm used to more lavish quarters, but such are the sacrifices one must make when one is on the run," she teased, placing her arms around his neck.

He smiled and rested his forehead against hers before pulling back and smiling at her. "How is Clara?"

"Clara? Fast asleep down the hall," Mary chuckled. "I think the excitement of meeting her Granny and seeing her Papa wore her out. I've never seen her smile so much and laugh for so long"

Matthew smiled sadly. "I wish Madeline was here to see her," a tear fell down his cheek. "She'd be so proud."

Mary wiped away the tear with her thumb and kissed him gently. "I know. She'd be proud of the both of you." He pulled her back to him, hugging her tight.

"I'm sorry that I keep bringing up her name. It's not fair to you, and I don't mean to compare her to you," he said softly.

She nodded and leaned into his embrace. "I know. She's a part of you, and a part of Clara, and always will be. I'm fine with that, so long as there's a small corner in there somewhere for me."

He stepped back so she could see his eyes, his hands moved up to caress her face. "Mary, you mean more to me than that. You're not just a nanny, or a tutor, or an etiquette instructor."

She smiled sadly and nodded her head. "Oh, Matthew. I know you think you mean that, but we barely know each other, really. And we have so much baggage between us, with how we met and what happened to my father, and everything with Blake. You need me for comfort. I understand. I'm happy to do it. There's really nowhere else for me to turn anymore."

He lifted her chin so she was looking at him again. "What do you need from me?" he asked earnestly. "You talk about giving me comfort, and you've done so much, but what about you? Tell me, please."

She shuddered, afraid to answer. He nodded encouragingly, and she rolled her eyes and gave in.

"I just…it's so silly. I hear you talk about her, and see what you have with Clara. It all seems so genuine, so real. I suppose I've had so little of that in my life that it feels nice to see it up close, to know that love like that exists, because in this world I've often wondered if it does, or if I will ever receive it."

He frowned at her words, then leaned forward and kissed her.

"Oh Matthew, please don't give me your pity. I don't need it, honestly. I'm just blubbing because of everything that's happened, I suppose," she said shakily.

"You are loved, Mary," he said quietly, kissing her again. "You are loved."

She sobbed as he kissed her forehead, both of her cheeks, her neck, then back up to her mouth, repeating the phrase again and again.

"You're not alone. I'm here. You're mine," he said, seizing her mouth again.

She moaned as he scooped her up and carried her to bed, setting her down gently and following after her. She shifted across the mattress to give him room, their hands roaming over buttons and snaps, removing their clothing between heated kisses. There was a desperation to his movements that she did not dare think about. She didn't want to think about anything. All she wanted was to be everything he wanted her to be, do all that he asked. He had chosen her, and was here with her, and as imperfect as this was, it was theirs and theirs alone.

"Mary," he breathed over and over, his lips tracing a path down her neck and over her breasts, his lips teasing her flesh and drawing gasps from her mouth. She reached for him and he shook his head, pressing her arms out to her sides and giving her a look that told her she wasn't to move, just before his mouth resumed his work.

"Matthew," she gasped, her voice sounding wanton and pleading. She hated begging, despised it even, but she freely begged him now, his nimble fingers rendering her naked before moving between her thighs and showing her what was in store for her.

"Yes," she called, spreading her legs for him and submitting to his dark intentions. Whatever shed of reason she might have left was ignored and banished from her mind. With every whisper of her name and heated glance, he convinced her that it was she that he was ravishing, she who he was taking, she who he was claiming as his.

"Mine, Mary," he grunted, one long finger finding her core. "Mine."

He stroked her over and over, his hot breath on her neck, his firm body against hers.

Her mind reeled as he added a second finger and she wondered who was this harlot moaning and whimpering and begging him for more. What had he turned her into? She couldn't think straight as rapture came upon her like a rushing storm, swallowing her up as she keened in pleasure.

He soothed her through it, kissing her and slowing his hand, eventually pulling back completely.

She couldn't help but feel him against her thigh, even as she fought to catch her breath.

He kissed a wet trail across her chest, moving atop her, resting his weight on his arms.

She looked up into his steely gaze, his blue eyes bright and wild. She swallowed and raised her hands to his face.

"Yours," she whispered, nodding her head as anticipation and need swirled in her chest. "Only yours."

He entered her swiftly and she almost came apart again, her legs rising and parting to receive him. His hips moved deliberately and strongly, building her up with every thrust.

"Yes," she sighed, her eyelids fluttering. She tried to keep her eyes on his, to lose herself in his stare, but his thrusts demanded her attention, her acceptance. She vaguely remembered their first meeting, a lifetime ago in that bar. She had taunted him, played with him like she always did with men, always hinting that they weren't man enough for her, that he wouldn't be able to keep up with her. How wrong she was.

"Mary," he growled, leaning down and kissing her. He repeated her name again and again, his hips moving faster, drawing a moan from her with every plunge. He was relentless and she hung on, hoping he would have mercy on her while also praying he would never stop.

She called out his name again as she fell apart for a second time, waves of bliss crashing inside of her. As the high of her release dazzled her mind, she felt him push in deep and snarl her name. He unleashed and filled her, the warmth of him spreading through her, his claiming of her complete.

Eventually, he withdrew, turning them both on to their sides and kissing her softly. She looked at him and found his eyes a much calmer colour. He kissed her again, and again, and again, his arms holding her close, the softness of his lips and the power of what they'd just done making her drowsy.

"Yours," she mumbled, kissing him back lazily. "All yours."

* * *

Mary fell asleep before he did, and he preferred it that way. He lay still in bed, the only sound in the room the ticking of his watch that had been discarded to the bedside table, and Mary's gentle breathing as she dozed peacefully in his arms. He hadn't had this in almost two years – someone falling asleep on his chest, skin to skin. He distinctly remembered the last time he felt like this – actually at peace and content – when he and Madeline saw each other for what would be the last time. He remembered the smile on her face as she'd snuggled up to him, the late day rain pattering on his bedroom window. Despite what he did for a living, despite his sins, being with her then felt glorious, redeeming and safe.

Matthew shook himself out of his thoughts and looked over to the glaring white envelope that came a couple of hours before Mary and Clara's arrival. Tom's messy handwriting done out in black pen and hinted at the horror contained inside. He felt guilty momentarily that he was lying naked in bed with Mary when the world outside the window was so cruel and despicable. He sighed, unable to put his mind at ease. He carefully untangled himself from Mary, careful not to wake her, and picked up the letter.

He threw on a shirt and trousers before padding quietly down the stairs and out to the back. He sat down on one the steps leading down to the vast gardens and sighed. This was probably the worst letter he was about to open. Of all the men that had died in the last 8 years of this bloody conflict, he had never had to deal with a suicide and a suicide note. His hands trembled as he opened the envelope and held the letter in his hands. True to form, Tom's handwriting was near enough unreadable, but over the years, Matthew had learned to decipher his friend's handwriting.

_Matthew,_

_I want to start with something that is long overdue- I'm sorry. I'm sorry for fleeing the night when you needed your friends around you the most. I'm sorry for leaving without telling you, but it was only way I could protect myself, and you._

_I gather that people are probably asking lots of questions about my disappearance and now my death_\- _there I said it. I left because even before the ambush, I knew I was in danger from Blake. I was in danger from him long before I knew you. You're probably frowning or shaking your head, or both, but hold on, I'm going to tell you._

_A long time ago, I was a close ally of Blake's and I was asked to spy on people that he didn't like. I was asked to spy on you. He didn't know that you were sleeping with his wife. He wanted you watched because of your affiliation to Charlie Carson and the New York Firm. I'm sorry, Matthew. It's a part of my life that I'm ashamed of. Eventually, you became an inconvenience to him, a threat, so one night, I followed you to Stone's, with the orders to kill you. _

_I couldn't go through with it._

_ I saw you with a woman, a red head with a foreign accent. Beth, I think her name was. You both looked so happy, I couldn't take that away from either of you. So I just turned away and lied to Blake that I'd gone through with it. Of course, he knew I was lying. He couldn't be bothered to off me, said I wasn't worth the effort, so I was dismissed, but with the promise that I'd one day pay for my mistake. And by God I did. 4 years later._

Matthew felt sick. "No, it can't be" he whispered, as the evening began to whip up.

_It was me, Matthew. I was the one that killed Patrick Crawley. I had to, you see. It was him or me, and I took the coward's way out, just like I am now._

_And that's the reason I have to die. Too much has happened for me to face you or go on carrying on with all the horrors I've seen and been a part of. This is the only way out. This isn't your fault, whatever Blake or even Charlie Carson made you believe. Patrick Crawley's death was never your fault. Blake only began to really hate you when he found out about you and Madeline._

_I'm sorry. _

_Thank you for everything._

_Tom._

Matthew didn't flinch when he felt a soft hand place itself on his back before gently removing the letter from his trembling hands and sitting down beside him. He began to weep bitterly.

"From Tom?" she asked quietly.

He nodded his head.

"Tom killed himself because of Blake, Mary," he sniffled, as she leant her head on his arm. "It's all there in the letter."

"I used to think that he killed Patrick himself, well that's the way he bragged about it" Mary confessed. "But then I always knew he wasn't capable of doing his own dirty work."

"Do you think you could keep an eye on Clara for me tomorrow evening?" Matthew asked quietly.

"Of course. I've been keeping an eye on her for the best part of 4 years you know" Mary joked. "Why?"

He took a deep breath, then looked at her unflinchingly. "I'm going to end it."

She blinked, his meaning sinking in. Her lips parted and a harsh breath left her. Shaking her head, she got up and went back inside.

"Mary!" he called, getting up and following after her. She ran back upstairs and he chased after, eventually going back to the bedroom.

"Mary," he repeated, approaching her slowly. She was sitting on the bed, her arms crossed over her chest, staring down at the floor.

"I can't convince you not to go, can I?" she whispered.

"He won't leave me alone, and now that you've left with Clara, he'll come after you too. I have to do this," he said firmly.

She looked up at him with desperate eyes. "And if you fail? What then?"

He frowned for a moment. "I won't."

"And if you come back, what then? There are many Charles Blakes in the world, you know," she said.

He kneeled down and took her face in his hands. "It's over tomorrow. I'll get out and we'll go somewhere far away and start over. California, maybe. You, me and Clara."

She swallowed nervously. "Do you mean that?"

He nodded.

Her hands drifted down and undid her robe, pulling it back and off her naked body.

"Prove it," she said.

He kissed her and pushed her back on to the bed.


End file.
